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"«OM T„H L,a„.,„,- „p 


(CUu M ,tn) 


' J"""!- «. 191! 







Vol. VI L 





/?f-7-/> ^-^ 




JAN. 22, 1918 

Filtered, aooording to Act of CongreM. in the year uiie tliousaod 
eigbt Imnlred aiul fifty-three, by 

TTarper & BUUIUEIU, 

in the Clerk 'j Ofiice of the District Court of tlic Soathero District 

of Now York. 

A ; 









GoHPOSiTiONB retemblia^ those of the presBitt volume are nol 
nnfrequently condemned for their querulous egotism. But ego- 
tism ia to be condemned then only when it oSends agaiiist time 
and place, as in a histoiy or an cpie poem. To censure it in ■ 
monody or sonnet is almost as absurd as to dislike a circle for 
being round. Why then write Sonnets or Monodies ? Because 
they give mo pleasure when perhaps nothing else could. AAcr 
the more violent emotions of sorrow, the mind demands amuse- 
ment, and can find it in employment alone : but full of its late 
sufleringa, it can endure no employment not in some inessiire 
connected with them. Forcibly to turn away our atteniioa to 
general subjects is a painful and oiicn a most unavailing effort. 

" But t honr graterul to a wounded heart 
The tale of misery to iuipnrt — 
From olhem' ejei bid artless sorrows tlnw, 
Aud raise esteem upon the base of woe 1" 

The eomniQnicativenees of our nature leads us to describe our 
own sorrows ; in the endeavor to describe them, intellectual ac- 
tivity is exerted ; and from intellectual activity there results a 
pleuore, which is gradually aHsociated. and mingles as a corree- 
live, with the painful subject of the description. " True '." {it 
may be answered) " but how is the Public interested in your 
forrowB or your description 7" We are forever attributing per- 
•onal unities to imaginary aggregates. What is the Public, but 
" To the first and leeond editinni 



But a living writer is yet sub judice ; and if we can not follow 
his conceptions or enter into his feelings, it is more consoling to 
our pride to consider him as lost beneath, than as soaring above 
us. If any man expect from my poems the same easiness of style 
which he admires in a drinking-song, for him I have not written, 
lotellig^bilia, non intellectum adfero. 

I expect neither profit nor general fame by my writings ; and 
L consider myself as having been amply repaid without either. 
Poetry has been to me its own " exceeding great reward :" it has 
soothed my afflictions ; it has multiplied and refined my enjoy- 
ments ; it has endeared solitude ; and it has given me the habit 
of wishing to discover the Good and the Beautiful in all that 

meets and surrounds me. 

S. T, O. 



0«lMTieTe n 

Sonnel. To the Autumnal M<ion 17 

Anibem for tliaCliiUreo of Chriai'a Hospital IS 

nmc, rMl anJ iioBginary 19 

Monody on Die DeAfh of CliHtterloo 16 

Songs of the Piiica 34 

The lUiveo 27 

Dennshire Roula S9 

Iniide the Coadi 30 

MktlitfniBtical Problem SI 

Tho Hose 33 

Honodjr «t m Tes-kottle >H 

Abunee, a Fsrowelt Ode S« 

Sonnet. On lie«»ing School B« 

To the Hue '. S7 

With FicldlDg'i AmelU 87 

SontieL On hearing that hia Sistpr'n Duath vns inevitable 38 

On leenig a Youth nfFeetionHtely n-vlcometl by & Sister 3S 

Line* on nn Autumnal Eve 

The Rose 

The Kua 

To a Young Au 


Dmneetk Peace 





Epitaph on aa Infiint 4'i 

On ImitatioD 60 

Honor 60 

Progress of Vice 6S 

lines Written at the Kingfs Arms, Ross 62 

Destruction of the Bastilc 6S 

lines to a beautiful Spring in a YilUige 64 

^ On a Friend who Died of a Frenzy Fever induced by calumnious 

reports 65 

To a Young Lady, 'with a Poem on the French RevolutioD. 67 

Sonnet L '* My Heart has Thanked thee, Bowles" 68 

• II. " As late I lay in Slumber's Shadowy Vale* 69 

IIL " Though roused by that dark vizir Riot rude" 69 

■ IV. " When British Freedom from a Happier LuxT 69 

V. " It was some Spirit, Sheridan T 60 

VL " what a loud and fearful shriek" 60 

VIL "AswhenfaroflF" 61 

VIIL "Thou gentle look" 61 

IX. "Pale Roamer through the Night r 62 

X. " Sweet Mercy T 62 

XL "Thou Bleedest, my Poor Heart'' 62 

XIL To the Author of the Robbers 63 

Lines, composed while climbing Brockley Coomb 63 

Lines in the manner of Spenser 64 

Imitated from Osstan 65 

The Complaint of Ninathoma 66 

Imitated from the WeUh 66 

To an Infant 67 

Lines in Answer to a Letter from Bristol 67 

To a Friend in Answer to a melancholy Letter 70 

Religious Musings 71 

The Destiny of Nations — a Vision 83 

Klises • 97 

To the Nightingale 97 

To Charles Lamb 98 

Casimir ad hvrani 99 

Darwiniuna 100 

Epigram 101 

On the Christening of a Friend's Child 101 

lines written at Shurton Bars, near Bridgewater 10? 




Ode to the Departing Year 109 

France — an Ode 114 

Fears in Solitude 117 

Fire, Famine, and Slaughter 128 

Love 126 

Introduction to the Tale of the Dork Ladie 129 

The Ballad of the Dark Ladie. A Fragment 180 

Lewti, or the Ciroasaian Love Chant 132 

The Picture, or the Lover's Resolution 134 

The Night Scene. A Dramatic Fragment 139 

To an Unfortunate Woman 142 

To an Unfortunate Woman at the Theatre 142 

Lines composed in a Concert Room 143 

The Keepsake 144 

To a Lady, with Falconer's Shipwreck 146 

To a Young Lady on her recovery from a Fever 147 

Something Childish, but very Natural 147 

Home-sick : 'written in Germany 148 

Answer to a Child's Question 148 

A Child's Evening Prayer 149 

The Visionary Hope 149 

The Happy Husband 150 

Recollections of Love 161 

On revisiting the Sea-shore 162 

Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni * 163 

lines written in the Album at Elbingerode in the Harta Forest. . 166 

On observing a Blossom on the Firbt of February 167 

i^The iEolian Harp 158 

Reflections on having left a place of retirement 160 

To the Rev. George Coleridge 162 

Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath 164 

A Tombleas Epitaph 164 

Tliis lime Tree Bower my Prison 166 

To a Friend, who had declared his inti'ntion of writing no more 

Poetry 168 

To William Wordsworth, composed on the night after his recita- 
tion of a Poem on the Growth of an Individual Mind 169 

The Nightingale 178 

Froet at Midnight 176 

The Three Graves \*\% 

DejectloD. An Ode Wi 

• • 



SaTLLUiK Lkatk& 

Ode to Georgiana, Duofaees of DeroDshtre 1 V4 

Ode to TraDquillity 1»6 

To a Young Friend, on his proposing to Domesticate with the Author 1 97 

Lines to W. L. while he sang a Song to Purcell's Musio 199 

Addressed to a Young Man of Fortune 200 

Sonnet To the River Otter 200 

Compoeed on a Journey homeward, after hearing of the 

Birth of a Son 201 

Sonnet To a Friend 201 

The Virgin's Cradle Hymn 202 

Epitaph on an Infant 202 

Melancholy. A Fragment 208 

TeU's Birth Pkce 208 

A Christmas Carol 204 

Human Life 206 

Moles 207 

The Visit of the Gods 207 

Elegy : imitated from Akenside T 208 

Separation 209 

On taking Leave of 209 

The Pang more sharp than all 210 

^ KublaKhan 212 

The Pains of Sleep 214 

Limbo 215 

Ne plus ultra. 216 

Apologetic Preface to Fire, Famine, and Slaughter 217 

The AxaENT Mariner. 

Part 1 229 

II 232 

III 233 

IV^ 236 

V 288 

VI 242 

VIL 245 

Obrlstabku Part 1 249 

Conclusion to Part 1 267 

Part II 259 

Oooclusion to Pftrt II 267 



Alice duCloe; or tho Forked TuogoeL A Ballad 271 

Tbs Knight's TomliL 876 

Hjwa to the EartL i77 

WritteD during a temporary hiindneas, t7S9 ^76 

Uahomet. 579 

Oatulliao UeodecasylUbloa 27U 

Dnty aurviving Stif-Utve 279 

Phantom or Fact I A DJabiguc b Versa 28(1 

FhaDtom. 281 

Work witliout Hupe 281 

^ Touth and Age 281 

A Day Dreaoi 288 

Firat Advent ol' Love 284 

Namei. 284 

Draire 284 

Lore and FriendaLip opposite SM 

Not at Home 286 

To a Lady offeoded by a sporlire obaervation 28C 

linea luggeited by tlie lA«t Words of Berengariiu 286 

Saocli DomiDici Pallium 287 

Tho Devil'B Tbougbta 289 

The tTO romid apaces on the Tombsloue 292 

Lines ton Comie Author 2tP4 

Constancy to an Ideal Object. 294 

Tha Suicide's Argument 290 

The Blossoming ur the solitary Date Tree 296 

From theOerman 297 

Fuicy in Nabibus 29'( 

The Two Founts 299 

Tbt Wauderiugs of Cain aOl 

.Allegoric Vision 807 

Bew Tbooghts oa Old Subjecia 31! 

The Garden of Boecaecio 318 

Ou aOatanet 321 

Lore's Apparition and Evaiiiahment 322 

Morning luvitalion to a Child 322 

Comolatiiia of a Maniac 324 

A Character 82S 

The Reproof and Reply S27 

ChoUr* Cured beforehand %^ 

fMogne. TO\ 


Vmckllamocs PoEaok 

Oa my joyful Departure from the same City (CoVigne) 831 

Written ia ao Album 831 

To the Author of the Ancient Mariner 831 

Metrical Feet Lesson for a Boy 332 

The Homeric Hexameter described and exemplified 833 

The OvJdian Elegiac Metre described and exemplified 332 

To the young Artist, Kayser of Kayserworth 332 

Job's Luck 838 

On a Volunteer Singer 833 

On an Insignificant 833 

Profuse Kindness 334 

Charity in Thoughts 834 

Humility the Mother of Charity 334 

On an Infant which died before Baptism 834 

On Berkeley and Florence Coleridge 334 

" TvCfdi aeavTbv,"' «fec 335 

'* Gently I took," te 335 

My Baptismal Birthday 336 

Epitaph 886 

An Ode to the Raiu 337 

The Exchange 339 

Psyche 889 

Love, Hope, and Patience in Educatioo 839 

Comphunt 840 

'ETTtra^toy airoypaTrrov 340 

What is Life! 341 

Inscription for a Time-Piece 341 

Rkmobse : A Tragedt 345 

Appendix 403 

Zapolta: a CnaiflTMAS Tale. 

Part L The Preluile, entitled "The Usurper's Fortune" 409 

Part IL The Sequel, entitled " The Usurper's Fate" 429 

Tns PiccoLOMiNi ; or. The Fibst Paet ok Wallenstkin : A Drama. 

Tranuluted from the German of Schiller 479 

Tbx Death of Wallenstbin : A Tragedy in Five Acts 609 

Notes to the Translation 699 



Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve '. 
Ill Beanty'i light you glide along : 
Your eye is like the star of eve, 
And sweet your Voice, as Seraph's song. 
Yet not your heavenly Beauly gives 
This heart with paBsion soft to glow ; 
Within your soul a. Voice there lives .' 
It bids you hear the Ule of Woe. 
When sinking low the Sutferei wan 
■Beholds no hand outstretcht U> save, 
Fair, as the bosom of the Swan 
That rises graceful o'er the wave, 
I've seen your breast with pity heave, 
And therefore love I you, sweet Geneviere ! 


Mild Splendor of the various- vested Night ! 
Mother of wildly- working visions ! hail ! 
I watch thy gliding, while with watery light 
Thy weak eye glimmers through a fleecy veil ; 
And when thou lovciit thy pale orh to shroud 
Behind the gathered blackness lost on high ; 
And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud 
Thy placid lightning o'er the awakened sky. 
Ah such is Hope I as changeful and as fail ! 
Now dimly peering on the wistful sijrht ; 
Now hid behind the dragon-winged Despair: 
But soon emerging in her radiant might 
She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care 
Sails, like a ineleor kindling in its flight. 



Seraphs ! around th* Eternal's seat who ihnmg 

With tuneful ecstacies of praise : 
O ! teach our feeble tongues like yours the naog 

Of fervent gratitude to raise — 
Like you, inspir'd with holy flame 
To dwell on that Almighty name 
Who bade the child of woe no longer sigh. 
And Joy in tears overspread the ITHdow's eye. 

Th* all-gracious Parent hears the wretch's prayer ; 

The meek tear strongly pleads on high ; 
Wan Resignation struggling with despair 

The Lord beholds with pitying eye ; 
Sees cheerless want unpitied pine, 
Disease on earth its head recline. 
And bids compassion seek the realms of woe 
To heal the wounded, and to raise the low. 

She comes ! she comes I the meek ey'd power I see 

With liberal hand that loves to bless ; 
The clouds of sorrow at her presence flee ; 

Rejoice I rejoice ! ye children of distress ! 
The beams that play around her head 
Thro' want's dark vale their radiance spread : 
The young uncultur d mind imbibes the ray. 
And vice reluctant quits th* expected prey. 

Cease, thou lorn mother ! cease thy wailings drear ' 

Ye babes I the unconscious sob forego ; 
Or let full gratitude now prompt the tear 

Which erst did sorrow force to flow. 
Unkindly cold and tempest shrill 
In life's mom of\ the traveller chill, 
But soon his path the sun of Love shall warm ; 
And each glad scene look brighter for the storm ! 




On the wide level of a mountain's head, 
{I knew not when", but 'twaa some faery place) 
Their piaions, oettich-like, for sails ouUpread, 
Two lovely childrsn run an endlew race, 

A Bister and a*, brother! 

That far outslripp'd the other ; 
Yet ever runs she with reverted face. 
And looks and listens for the boy behind : 

For he, alas ! is blind ! 
O'er rough and NDOoth with even step he passed 
And knowa not whether he be first or last. 


WHAT a wonder seems the fear of death, 

Seeing how gladly we all sicik to sleep. 

Babes, Children, Youths, and Men, 

Night following night for threescore years and ten I 

But doubly strange, where life is but a breath 

To sigh and pant with, up Want's rugged steep. 

Away, Grim Phantom ! Scorpion King, away ! 

Reserve thy terrors and thy stiiigB diNjilay 

For coward Wealth and GnJlt in robus of State ! 

ho', by the grave I stand of one. for whom 

A prodigal Nature and a niggard Boom 

(That all bestowing, this withholding alt,) 

Uade each chance knelt from distant spire or dome 

Sound like a seeking Mother's anxious call. 

Return, poor Child ! Home, weary Truant, home ! 

Thee, Chattcrton I these unblest stones protect 
From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect. 
Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven 
Here hast thou found repose ! beneath this sod '. 
Thou ! vain word I thou dwell'st not wkh iW cVtA 


Amid the shining Host of the Forgiven 
Thou at the Throne of Mercy and thy God 
The triumph of redeeming Love dost hymn 
(Believe it, my soul !) to harps of Seraphim. 

Yet oft, perforce, ('tis sufiering Nature's call) 
I weep, that heaven-born Genius so should fall ; 
And oft, in Fancy's saddest hour, my soul 
Averted shudders at the poisoned bowl. 
Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view 

Thy corse of livid hue ; 
Now indignation checks the feeble sigh. 
Or flashes through the tear that glistens in mine eye ! 

Is this the land of song-ennobled line ? 

Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain 

Poured forth his lofty strain ? 
Ah me ! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine, 
Beneath chill Disappointment's shade, 
His weary limbs in lonely anguish laid ; 

And o'er her darling dead 

Pily hopeless hung her head, 
While '* mid the pelting of that merciless storm," 
Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famished form ! 

Sublime of thought, and confident of fame. 

From vales where Avon winds the Minstrel* came. 

Light-hearted youth ! aye, as he hastes along, 
He meditates the future song, 
How dauntless ^Ua frayed the Dacyan foe ; 

And while the numbers flowing strong 

In eddies whirl, in surges throng. 
Exulting in the spirits' genial throe 
In tides of power his life-blood seems to flow. 

And now his checks w^ith deeper ardors flame, 
His eyes have glorious meanings, that declare 
More than the light of outward day shines there, 
A holier triumph and a sterner aim ! 

• Avon, a river near Brietol ; the birth-place of Cbatterto» 



Wings grow within him ; and he wars above 
Or Bard's or Minslrei'i lay of war or love. 
Friend to tht friendless, to the Sufferer health, 
He hears the widow's prayer, the good man's praise ; 
To scenes of bliss transmutes his fancied wealth, 
And young- and old shall now see happy days. 
On many « waste he bids trim (gardens rise, 
Gives the blue sky to maoy a prisoner's eyes ; 
And now in wrath he grasps the patriot steel, 
And her own iron rod ho makes Oppression feel. 

Sweet Flower of Hope I IVea Nature's genial child I 
That didst so fair disclose thy early bloom, 
Filling the wide air with a rich perfume '. 
For thee in vain all heavenly aspects smil'd ; 
From the hard world briei' respite could they win — 
The frost nipp'd sharp without, the canker prey'd within ' 
Ah ! where arc lied the charms of vernal Urace, 
And Joy's wild gleams that lighten'd o'er thy fac« ' 
Youth of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye ! 
Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view, 
On thy wan forehead starts the lethal dew. 
And oh '. the anguish of that shuddering sigh ! 

Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour. 

When Care, of withered brow, 
Prepared the poison's doath'Cold power ; 
Already to thy hps was raised the bowl, 
When near thee stood Aflection meek 
(Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her chmk) I 
Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll 
On scenes that well might melt thy soul ; 
Thy native cot she flashed upon thy view. 
Thy native cot, where still, at cloee of day. 
Peace smiling sale, and listened to thy lay ; 
Thy Sister's ehricks she bade thee bear, 
And mark thy mother's thrilling tear ; • 
See, see her breast's convulsive ihro^, 
Her silent agony of woe.' 
Ah ! dash the poisoned chalico from thy hand*. 


And thou had^st dashed it, at her soft command, 

But that Despair and Indignation rose, 

And told again the story of thy woes ; 

Told the keen insult of the unfeeling heart ; 

The dread dependence on the low-horn mind ; 

Told every pang, with which thy soul must smart, 

Neglect, and grinning Scorn, and Want oomhined ! 

Recoiling quick, thou bad'st the friend of pain 

Roll the black tide of Death through every freezing rein ? 

Spirit blest ! 
Whether the Eternal's throne around, 
Amidst the blaze of Seraphim, 
Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn ; 
Or soaring thro' the blest domain 
Enrapturest Angels with thy strain, — 
Grant me, like thee, the lyre to soimd, 
Like thee with fire divine to glow ; — 
But ah I when rage the waves of woe. 
Grant me with firmer breast to meet their hate. 
And soar beyond the storm with upright eye elate ! 

Ye woods I that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep, 
To Fancy's ear sweet is your murmuring deep I 
For here she loves the c}'press >\Teath to weave 
Watching, with wistful eye, the saddening tints of eTo. 
Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove, 
In solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove. 
Like star-beam on the slow sequestered tide 
Lone-glittering, through the high tree branching wide. 

And here, in Inspiration's eager hour. 
When most the big soul feels the mastering power, 
These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er. 
Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar. 
With wild unequal steps he passed along. 
Oft pouring on the winds a broken song : 
Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful brow 
Would pause abrupt — and gaze upon the waves below. 

Poor Chatterton I he sorrows for thy fate 

Who would have praised and loved thee, are too late. 


Poor Chatlerton ! farewell ! of darkest fanes 
This chaplet cast 1 on thy unshapcd tomb ; 
But dare no longer oa the lad theme muse, 
Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom : 
For oh ! big gall-drops, shook from Folly's wing, 
Have blackened the foir promise of my spring; 
And the stem Fate transpierced with viewless dart 
The last pale Hope that Bhivcred at my heart I 

Hence, gloomy thoughts ! no more my soul shall dwell 

On joya that were ! B'o more endure to weigh 

The ihame and anguish of the evil day. 

Wisely forgetful I O'er the ocean swell 

Sublime of Hope I seek the cottaged dell 

Where Virtue calm with careless Etep may stray ; 

And, dancing to the moonlight roundelay. 

The wizard passions weave a holy spell ! 

Chatterton I that thou wert yet olive I 

Sure thou would' et spread the canvass to the gale, 

And love with us the tinkling team to drive 

O'er peaceful Freedom's undivided dale ; 

And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng, 

Would hang, enraptured, on thy stately song. 

And greet with smiles the young-eyed Poesy 

All deftly masked, as hoar Antiquity. 

Alas, vain Phantasies ! the fieeting brood 

Of Woe self-solaced in her dreamy mood ! 

Yet will I love to follow the sweet dream, 

Where Susquehanna pours his untamed stream ; 

And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side 

Waves o'er the murmurs of his calmer tide, 

Will raise a solema Cenotaph to thee, 

Sweet Harper of time-shrouded Minstrelsy ! 

And there, soothed sadly by the dirgefol windt 

Muse on the sore ills I had lefl behind. 



The Pixies, in the superstition of Devonshire, are a race of beings !&%'» 
ibiy small, and harmless or friendly to man. At a small distonoe from a 
village in that county, half-way up a wood-eovered hill, is an ezeavation 
called the Pixies* Parlor. The roots of old trees form its ceiling ; and on 
its sides are innumerable ciphers, among which the author discovered his 
own and those of his brothers, cut by the hand of their diildhood. At the 
foot of the hill flows the river Otter. 

To this place the author, during the Summer months of the year 179«^ 
conducted a party of youug ladies, one of whom, of stature elegantly small, 
and of complexion colorless yet clear, was proclaimed the Faery Queeo. 
On which occasion the lollowiug Irr<^ular Ode was written. 


Whom the untaught Shepherds call 

Pixies in their madrigal. 
Fancy's children, here we dwell : 

Welcome, Ladies I to our cell. 
Here the wren of softest note 

Builds its nest and warbles well ; 
Here the blackbird strains his throat ; 

Welcome, Ladies I to our cell. 


When fades the moon to shadowy-pale. 
And scuds the cloud before the gale. 
Ere the Morn, all gem-bed ight, 
Hath streaked the East with rosy light, 
We sip the furze-flower's fragrant dews 
Clad in robes of rainbow hues : 
Or sport amid the shooting gleams 
To the tune of distant-tinkling teams. 
While lusty Labor scouting sorrow 
Bids the Dame a glad good-morrow. 
Who jogs the accustomed road along, 
And paces cheer)' to her cheering song. 


But not our filmy pinion 
We scorch amid the blaze of day. 
When Noontide's fiery-tressed mioioa 
Flashes the fervid ray. 


Aye from the sultry heat 

We to the cave retreat 
O'eicanopied by huge roots intertwinnl 
With wildest texture, blackened u'er with age : 
Bouid them theii mantle green the ivies bind, '•■ 

Beneath whoae foUuge pale 

Fanned by the unfrequent gale 
Wo iJiield ua from the Tyrant's mid-day rage. 

Thither, wbile the murmuring throng 
Of wild-bees hum their drowsy Fong, 
By Indolence and Fancy brought, 
A youthful Bard, " unknown to Fame," 
ffoos the auccn of Solemn Thought, 
Ano heaves the gentle misery of a sigh 
Gazing with tearful eye, 
PiS round our sandy grot appear 
Uany a rudely sculptured name 
To pensive Memory dear ! 
Weirfing gay dreams of sunny-tinctured hue 

We glance before hia view ; 
O'er his hush'd soul our soothing witcheries shed 
And twine the future garland round his head. 

When Evening's dusky car 

Crowned with her dewy star 
Steals o'er Iho fading sky in shadowy flight ; 

On leaves of aspen trees 

We tremble to the breeze 
Veiled from the grosser ken of mortal sight. 

Or, haply, at the visionary hour. 
Along our wildly-bowere<l sequestered walk. 
We listen to the enamored rustic's talk ; 
Heave with the hcavings of the maiden's breast. 
Where young-eyed Loves have hid their tnrtle-nest; 

Or guide of soul-subduing power 
The glance, that from the half-confessing eye 
Darts the lund question or (he soil reply. 
; V.I. B 



Or through the mystic ringlets of the vale 
We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank ; 
Or, silent-sandal'd, pay our defler court, 
Circling the Spirit of the Western Gale, 
Where wearied with his flower-caressing sport, 
Supine he slumhers on a violet hank ; 
Then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam 
By lonely Otter's sleep-persuading stream ; 
Or where his wave with loud unquiet song 
Dashed o'er the rocky channel froths along ; 
Or where, his silver waters smoothed to rest. 
The tall tree's shadow sleeps upon his breast. 


Hence thou lingerer. Light I 
Eve saddens into Night. 
Mother of wildly-working dreams ! we view 
The sombre hours, that round the stand 
With down-cast eyes (a duteous band) I 
Their dark robes dripping with the heavy dew. 
Sorceress of the ebon throne I 
Thy power the Pixies own. 
When round thy raven brow 
Heaven's lucent roses glow, 
And clouds in watery colors drest 
Float in light drapery o'er thy sable vest : 
What time the pale moon sheds a softer day 
Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam : 
For mid the quivering light 'tis ours to play, 
Aye dancing to the cadence of the stream. 


Welcome, Ladies I to the cell 

Where the blameless Pixies dwell : 
But thou, sweet Nymph ! proclaimed our Faery Queen, 

With what obeisance meet 

Thy presence shall we greet ? 
For lo ! attendant on thy steps are seen 

JUrKNILK poiais. 

Graceful Ease in artlees stole, 
And white-robod Purity of soul, 
With Honor's softer mien ; 
Mirth of the loosely-flowing hair. 
And meek-eyed Pity eloquently fair, 

"Wliosa tearful cheeks are lovely to the view. 
As snow-drop wet with dew. 

Unboastfril Maid ! though now the Lily pale 

Transparent grace thy beauties moek ; 
Yet ere again aiong the impurpling vale, 
The purpling vale and eltin-haunted grove, 
Young Zephyr his fresh flowers profusely thro 

"We'll tinge with livelier hues thy cheek ; 

And, haply, from the nectar-breathing Rose 

Extract a Blush for Love I 


Underneatu an old oak tree 

There was of swine a huge company 

That grunted as they crunch 'd the mast : 

For that was ripe, and lull full fast. 

Then they trotted away, lor the wind grew high : 

One acorn they left, and no more might you spy. 

Next came a Raven, that liked not such folly : 

He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melancholy 1 

Blacker was he than blackest jet, 

Plew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet. 

He picked np the acorn and buried it straight 

By the side of a river both deep and great. 

Where then did the Raven go ? 

He went high and low, 
Over hill, over dale, did the black Ravcti go. 

Many Autumns, many Springs 

Travelled ho with wuiiileriug wiiiKt*. 


Many Summers, many Winters— 
I can't tell half his adventures. 

At length he came back, and with him a She, 

And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree. 

They built them a nest in the topmost bough, 

And young ones they had, and were happy enow. 

But soon came a woodman in leathern guise, 

His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes. 

He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke. 

But Avith many a hem ! and a sturdy stroke, 

At length he brought down the poor Raven's own oak, 

His young ones were killed ; for they could not depart, 

And their mother did die of a broken heart. 

The boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever ; 

And they floated it doi^ni on the course of the river. 

They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip, 

And with this tree and others they made a good ship. 

The ship, it was lanched ; but in sight of the land 

Such a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand. 

It bulged on a rock, and the waves rushed in fast : 

Hound and round flew the Haven, and cawed to the blast. 

He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls — 

See ! See I o'er the topmast the mad water rolls I 

flight glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet, 
And Death riding home on a clcud did he meet, 
And he thanked him again and again for this treat : 

They had taken his all, and Revenge it was sweet I 


Hence, soul-dissolving Harmony 

That lead'st th' oblivious soul astray— 
Though thou sphere descended be — 
Hence away I — 
Thou mightier Goddess, thou demand'st my lay. 

Bom when earth was seiz'd with cholic ; 
Or as more sapient sages say, 
What time the Legion diabolic 


Compelled their beings to enshrine 
In bodies vile of herded swine, 
Precipitate adown the eleep 
With hideous lout were plunging in the deep, 
And hog and devil mingling grunt and yell 

Sciz'd on the ear with horrible oblnision ;— 
Then if aright old legendaries tell, 

Wort thou begot by Discord on Confusioti ! 

"What tho' no name's aonoroue power 
Was given thee at thy natal hour I — 
Yet oft I feel thy sacred might. 
While conconla wing their diataot flight. 
Such power inspires thy holy son 
Sable clerk of Tiverton. 
And oft where Otter Bports his stream, 
I hear thy banded oirspring scteain. 
Thou tioddcsa ! thou inspir'st each throat ; 
'Tis thou who pour'st the scriluh owl note ! 
Transported hear'st thy children all 
Scrape and blow and squeak and Equall, 
And while old Otter's steeple rings, 
Clappest hoarse thy raven wings ! 



The indignant Bard compos'd this furious ode, 
As lir'd ho dragg'd his way thro' Plimtree read ! 
Crusted with filth and stuck in mire 
Dull sounds the Bard's bemudded lyre ; 
Nathless Revenge and Ire the Poet goad 
To pout his imprecations on the road. 
CuiBt road 1 whose execrable way 
Was darkly shadow'd out in Hilton's lay, 
When the sad fiends thro' Hell's sulphureous roads 
Took the first survey of their new abodes ; 
Or when the fuH'n Archangel fierce 
Dar'd through the realms of Night lo pierce, 
What time the Blood Hound lur'd by Human scent 
Thro' all Confusion's quagmires floundering went. 


Nor cheering pipe, nor Bird*s shrill note 

Around thy dreary paths shall float ; 

Their boding songs shall scritch owl» pour 

To fright the guilty shepherds sore, 

Led by the wandering fires astray 

Thro' the dank horrors of thy way I 

While they their mud-lost sandals hunt 

May all the corses, which they grunt 

In raging moan like goaded hog, 

Alight upon thee, damned Bog ! 179a 


Ti3 hard on Bagshot Heath to try 

Unclos*d to keep the weary eye ; 

But ah I Oblivion's nod to get 

In rattling coach is harder yet 
Slumbrous God of half-shut eve ! 

AVho lov*6t with Limbs supine to lie ; 
Soother sweet of toil and care 

Listen, listen to my prayer ; 
And to thy votarj' dispense 

Thy soporific influence ! 
What tho' around thy drowsy head 

The seven-fold cap of night be spread, 
Yet lift that drowsy head awhile 

And yawn propitiously a smile ; 
In drizzly rains j)opjxjau dews 

O'er the tird inmates of the Coach difiuse ; 
And when thoust charm'd our eyes to rest 

Pillowing the chin upon the breast, 
Bid many a dream from thy dominions 

Wave its various-painted pinions. 
Till ere the splendid visions close 

We snore quartettes in ecstacy of novse. 
While thus we urge our airy course, 
Oh may no jolt's electric force 
Our fancies from their steeds unhorse, 

And call us from thy fairy reign 

To dreary Bagshot Heath again ! 1790L 


If Pegwu* will let thee oaij ride him, 
Spurning my ciumay effi>rts to o'entrida liim. 
Some fresh eipeilicDt tbe Miue will trjr. 
And walk on sUlta, although ahe can uot fly. 

DuK Beother, 
I have often been surprised that Hathematics, the ({aiatcMenoc of Tcutli, 
ihould have found admirers so fewnud so languid. Frequent eoDalderat inn 
and minute scrutiny have nt leugth uuraTelled the cate ; via. that tliougb 
Reason is feasted, Imagination is starved ; nliilat Heasou is luxuriating in its 
proper Paradise. Imagination is wearily travelling on a dreary desert. To 
assist Reason by the stimulus of Imoginslion is the desi^ of the folluw' 
ing production. In the exwutiun of it much may be objectionable. The 
verse (particularly in the iutroduction of the ode) may be accused of ud- 
warrantaUe liberties, but they ore liberties equally homt^encal with the 
exactness of Matbematieal disquisition, and tbe boldness of Pindaric daring. 
I have three strong champions to defend me against the attacks of Criticism ; 
the Xovelty, the Difficulty, and the Utility of the work. I may justly 
plume myself, tbat I fimt have drawn the nymph Hatheeis from the Tision- 
ary cares of abstracted Idea, and caused her to unite vith Harmony. The 
first-born of this Union I now present to you; with interested motives in- 
u I expect to receive in rutum the more valuable otbpring of your 

This is now— this was erst, 
Propocitioii Iho firat — aad Problem the first. 

On a given finite lino 
Which must no way incline ; 
To describu an eqni — 
—lateral Tri— 
— A, N. G, E. L, E. 

Now let A. B. 
lie ihc );ivcn lino 
Which must no way incline ; 
The great Mathematician 
Makes this itcc[iiisition. 

That we describe an Eqni— 
—lateral Tri— 

Aid lie Keaxuu — aid its Wit I 



From the centre A. at the distance A. B. 

Describe the circle B. C. D. 
At the distance B. A. from B. the centre 
The round A. C. E. to describe boldly venture. 
(Third postulate see.) 
And from the point C. 
In which the circles make a pother 
Cutting and slashing one another, 

Bid the straight lines a journeying go. 
C. A. C. B. those lines will show 

To the points, which by A. B. are reckon*d, 
And postulate the second 
For Authority ye know. 

A. B. C. 
Triumphant shall be 
An Equilateral Triangle, 
Not Peter Pindar carp, nor Zoilus can wrangle. 


Because the point A. is the centre 

Of the circular B. CD. 
And because the point B. is the centre 

Of the circular A. C. E. 
A. C. to A. B. and B Q. to B. A. 
Harmoniously equal forever must stay ; 
Then C. A. and B. C. 
Both extend the kind hand 
To the basis A. B, 
Unambitious] yjoin'd in Equality's Band. 
But to the same powers, when two powers are equal 
My mind forcbodts the sequel ; 
My mind docs some celestial impulse teach, 

And equalizes each to each. 
Thus C. A with B. C. strikes the same sure aMiance. 
That C. A. anl B. C. had with A. B. before 
And in mutual affiance 
None attempting to soar 
Above another. 


The unanimous three 
C. A. and B. C. and A. B. 
All arc equal, each to his brother, 

Preserving the balance of power so true : 
Ah ! the like would the proud Autocratix* do ! 
At taxes impending not Britain would tremble. 
Nor Prussia struggle her fear to dissemble; 
Nor the Mah'met-sprung wight 
The great Mussulman 
Would stain his Divan 
With Urine the soft-flowing daughter of Fright. 


But rein your stallion in, too daring Nine ! 
Should Empires bloat the scientific line ? 
Or with disheveird hair all madly do ye run 

For transport that your task is done ? 
For done it is — the cause is tried I 
And Proposition, gentle maid, 
Who soothly ask'd stern Demonstration's aid, 
Has proved her right, and A. B. C. 
Of Angles three 
Is shown to be of equal side ; 
And now our weary steed to rest in fine, 
'Tis raised upon A. B. the straight, the given line. 


Ye souls unus'd to lofty verse. 

Who sweep the earth with lowly wing, 

Like sand before the blast disperse — 
A Nose I a mighty Nose I sing I 
As erst Prometheus stole from heaven the fire 

To animate the wonder of his hand ; 
Thus, with unhallow'd hands, muse, aspire, 

And from my subject snatch a burning brand I 
So like the Nose I sing — my verso shall glow — 
Like Phlcgethon my verse in waves of fire shall flow ! 

♦ Empress of Russia. 


Light of this once all darksome spot 

Where now their glad course mortals run, 
First-bom of Sirius begot 
Upon the focus of the sun — 

I'll call thee I for such thy earthly name — 

What name so high, but what too low must be ? 
Comets, when most they drink the solar flame 

Are but faint types and images of thee ! 
Burn madly Fire I o'er earth in ravage run, 
Then blush for shame more red by fiercer outdone ! 

I saw when from the turtle feast 

The thick dark smoke in volumes rose ! 

I saw the darkness of the mist 
Encircle thee, Nose ! 
Shorn of thy rays thou shott'st a fearful gleam 

(The turtle quiver'd with prophetic fright) 
Gloomy and sullen thro' the night of steam : — 

So Satan's Nose when Duiistan urg'd to flight 
Glowing from gripe of red-hot pincers dread 
Athwart the smokes of Hell disastrous twilight shed ! 

The furies to madness my brain devote — 
In robes of ice my body wrap I 

On billowy flames of fire I float, 

Hear ye, my entrails how they snap ? 
Some power unseen forbids my lungs to breathe I 

What fire-clad meteors round me whizzing fly I 
I vitrify thy torrid zone beneath 

Proboscis fierce I I am calcin'd I I die I 
Thus, like great Pliny, in Vesuvius' fire, 

I perish in the blaze while I the blaze admire. 



MUSE who sangest late another's pain, 
To griefs domestic turn thy coal-black steed I 
With slowest steps thy funeral steed must go. 
Nodding his head in all the pomp of woe : 
Wide scatter round each dark and deadly weed, 

juvENiLb: roans. 

And let the melancholy dirge complain 
{While Bata shall ehrick and Dogs shall howling run) 
The tea-kettle is spoilt and Coleridge is undone ! 
Your cheerful songs, ye unseen crickets cease ! 
Let songs of grief your alter'd minds engage ! 
For be who sang responsive to your lay, 
What time the joyous bubbles 'gau to play. 
The sooty swain has felt the fire's fierce rage ; — 
Yes, be is gone, and alt my woes increase ; 
1 heard the Water issuing from the Wound — 
No more the Tea shall pour its flagrant steams around ! 

O Goddess best beloved, delightful Tea ! 

With thee compar'd what yields the madd'ning vine ? 

Sweet power ! who know'st to spread the calm delight 

And the pure joy prolong to midmost night ! 

Ah ! must I all thy varied sweets resign ? 

Eufbldcd close in grief thy form I see 

No more wilt thou extend thy willing arms, 

Receive the fervent Jove and yield him all thy charms ! 

How sink the mighty low by Fate opprest ! — 

Perhaps, Kettle ! thou by scornful toe 

Rude urg'd t' ignoble place with plaintive din, 

May'st rust obscure midst heaps of vulgar tin ; — 

As if no joy had ever seiz'd my breast 

When from thy spout the streams did arching fly, — 

As if infus'd thou ne'er badst known 1' inspire 

All the warm raptures of poetic fire ! 

But hark ! or do I fancy the glad voice — 

" What tho' the swain did wondrous channs disclose — • 

(!Not such did Mcmnoti's sister sable drest) 

Take these bright anna with royal face imprest, 

A better Kettle shall thy soul rejoiec, 

And with Oblivion's wings o'erspiead thy woes !" 

Thus Fairy Hope can soothe distress and toil ; 

On empty Trivets she bids fancied Kettles boil I 





Where graced with many a classic spoil 

Cam rolls his reverend stream along, 

I haste to urge the learned toil 

That sternly chides my love-lorn song : 

Ah me ! too mindful of the days 

Illumed by Passion's orient rays, 

When peace, and Cheerfulness, and Health 

Enriched me with the best of wealth. 

Ah fair Delights ! that o'er my soul 
On Memory's wing, like shadows fly ! 
Ah Flowers ! which Joy from Eden stole 
While Innocence stood smiling by ! — 
But cease, fond Heart ! this bootless moan : 
Those Hours on rapid Pinions flown 
Shall yet return, by Absence crowned, 
And scatter livelier roses round. 
The Sun who ne'er remits his fires 
On fieedless eyes may pour the day : 
The Moon, that oh from Heaven retires, 
Endears her renovated ray. 
What though she leaves the sky unblest 
To mourn awhile in murky vest ? 
When she relumes her lovely Light, 
We bless the Wanderer of the Night. 



Farewell parental scenes ! a sad farewell ! 
To you my grateful heart still fondly clings, 
Tho' fluttering round on Fancy's burnished wings 
Her tales of future Joy Hope loves to tell. 


Adieu, adieu 1 ye much lov'd cloisters psie ! 

Ah ! would those happy days return agaia, 

Whea 'oeath your arches, tree from every stain, 

I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale ! 

Dear haunts ! where oft my simple lays 1 sang, 

Listening meanwhile the echoings of my feet, 

Lingering I quit you, with as greut a pang. 

As when erewhile, my weeping childhood, torn 

By early sorrow from my native seat. 

Mingled its tears with hers — my widow'd Parent lorn. 


Tbo' no bold flights to thee belong ; 

And the' thy lays with couBcious fear, 

Shrink from Judgment's eye severe, 

Yet much I thank thee, Spirit of my song I 

For, lovely Muse ! thy sweet employ 

Exalts my soul, refines my breast. 

Gives each pure pleasure keener zest, 

And soflens sorrow into ]iensive Joy. 

From thee 1 leam'd the wish to bless, 

From thee to commune with my heart ; 

From thee, dear Muse ! the gayer part. 

To laugh wilh Pity at the crowds, that press 

Where Fashion flaunts her robes by Folly spun, 

Whose hues gay varying wanton in the sun. 



ViBTUBS and WocH alike loo great for man 

In the soft tale ofl claim the useless sigh ; 
For vain the attempt to realizo the plan. 

On folly's wings must imitation tly. 
With other aim has Fielding here display'd 

Each social duty and each social care ; 
With just yet vivid coloring porlray'd 

What every wife should be. what many aT«. 


And sure the P&rentof a race so sweet 
With double pleasure on the page shall dwell. 
Each scene with sympathizing breast shall meet. 
While Reason still with smiles delights to toll 
Maternal hope, that her lov*d Progeny 
In all but Sorrows shall Amelias be ! 


The tear which moum'd a brother's fate scarce dry- 
Pain after pain, and woe succeeding woe — 
Is my heart destined for another blow ? 
my sweet sister I and must thou too die ? 
Ah I how has Disappointment pour'd the tear 
O'er infant Hope destroy'd by early frost I 
How are ye gone, whom most my soul held dear ! 
Scarce had I lov'd you, ere I mourn'd you lost ; 
Say, is this hollow eye — ^this heartless pain 
Paled to rove thro' Life's wide cheerless plain — 
Nor father, brother, sister meets its ken — 
cVIy woes, my joys unshar'd ! Ah I long ere then 
3n me thy icy dart, stern Death, be prov'd ; — 
i\eiier to die, than live and not bo lov'd ! 



[ TOO a sister had I too cruel Death ! 
How sad remembrance bids my bosom heave I 
Tranquil her soul, as sleeping Infant's breath ; 
Meek were her manners as a vernal Eve. 
Knowledge, that irequent lifts the bloated mind, 
jrave her the treasure of a lowly breast, 
And Wit to venom'd Malice oft assign'd. 
Dwelt in her bosom in a Turtle's nest. 


Cease, busy Memory ! cease to urge the dart ; 

Nor on my soul her love to me impress ! 

For oh I mourn in anguish — and my heart 

Feels the keen pang, th' unutterable distress. 
Yet wherefore grieve I that her sorrows cease, 
For Life was Misery, and the Grave is Peace ! 


I TOO a sister had, an only sister ; — 

She lov'd me dearly and I doted on her ; 

To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows, 

(As a sick patient in a nurse's arms) 

And of the heart those hidden maladies 

That e'en from Friendship's eye will shrink asham'd. 

! I have wak'd at midnight and have wept 

Because she was not. 


Once could the Morn's first beams, the healthful breeze 

All nature charm, and gay was every hour : — 

But ah ! not Music's self, nor fragrant bower 

Can glad the trembling sense of wan disease. 

Now that the frequent pangs my frame assail. 

Now that my sleepless eyes are sunk and dim, 

And seas of pain seem waving through each limb^ 

Ah what can all Life's gilded scenes avail ? 

I view the crowd, whom youth and health inspire, 

Hear the loud laugh, and catch the sportive lay, 

Then sigh and think — I too could laugh and play 

And gaily sport it on the Muse's lyre, 

Ere Tyrant Pain had chas'd away delight. 

Ere the wild pulse throbb'd anguish thro' the night ! 


As late I jouniied o'er the extensive plain 
Where native Otter sports his scanty stream, 

Musing in torpid woe a sister's pain, 

The glorious prospect woke rne from the dream. 


At every step it widen'd to my sight. 

Wood, Meadow, verdant Hill, and dreary Sleep. 

Following in quick succession of delight, 

Till all — at once — did my eye ravish'd sweep ! 

May this (I cried) my course through Life portray ! 
New scenes of wisdom may each step display, 

And knowledge open as my days advance ! 
Till what time Death shall pour the undarken'd ray. 

My eye shall dart thro' infinite expanse, 
And thought suspended lie in rapture's hlissful Tranod 


THOU wild Fancy, check thy wing I No more 
Those thin white flakes, those purple clouds explore! 
Nor there with happy spirits speed thy flight 
Bathed in rich amber-glowing floods of light ; 

Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends the day, 

With western peasants hail the morning ray ! 

Ah I rather bid the perishe<i pleasures move, 

A shadowy train, across the soul of Love I 

O'er Disappointment's wintry desert fling 

Each flower that wreathed the dewy locks of Spring, 

When blushing, like a bride, from Hope's trim bower 

She leapt, awakened by the pattering shower. 

Now sheds the sinking Sun a deeper gleam. 

Aid, lovely Sorceress I aid thy Poet's dream ! 

With faery wand bid the Maid arise. 

Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes ; 

As erst when from the Muses' calm abode 

1 came, with Learning's meed not unbestowed ; 
When as she twined a laurel round my brow, 
And met my kiss, and half returned my vow. 
O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrilled heart, 
And every nerve confessed the electric dart. 

dear Deceit I I see the Maidsn rise. 

Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes I 


When first the lark high soaring swells his throat. 
Mocks the tired eye, and scatters the loud note, 
I trace her footsteps on the accustomed lawn, 
I mark her glancing mid the gleam of dawn. 
When the bent flower beneath the night-dew weepM 
And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps, 
Amid the paly radiance soft and sad, 
h)he meets my lonely path in moon-beams clad. 
With her along the streamlet's brink I rove ; 
With her I list the warblings of the grove ; 
And seems in each low wind her voice to float, 
Lone whispering Pity in each soothing note ! 

Spirits of Love ! ye heard her name ! Obey 
The powerful spell, and to my haunt repaii. 
Whether on clustering pinions ye are there, 
Where rich snows blossom on the Myrtle trees. 
Or with fond languishmcnt around my fair 
8igh in the loose luxuriance of her hair ; 
heed the spell, and hither wing your way. 
Like far-oflT music, voyaging the breeze ! 

Spirits ! to you the infant Maid was given 
Formed by the wonderous Alchemy of Heaven : 
No fairer Maid does Love's wide empire know, 
No fairer Maid e'er heaved the bosom's snow. 
A thousand Loves around her forehead fly ; 
A thousand Loves sit melting in her eye ; 
Love lights her smile — in Joy's red nectar dips 
Uis myrtle flower, and plants it on her lips. 
She speaks ! and hark that passion- warbled song — 
Still, Fancy I still that voice, those notes prolong. 
As sweet as when that voice with rapturous falls 
Shall wake the softened echoes of Heaven's Halls 

(have I sighed) were mine the wizard's rod, 
Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful God ! 
A flower-entangled Arbor I would seem 
To shield my Love from Noontide's sultry beam 
Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose odorous boughs 
My Love might weave gay (rarlands ibr her brows. 


When Twilight stole across the fading vale. 
To fan my Love I'd be the Evening Gale ; 
Mourn in the sod folds of her swelling vest, 
And flutter my faint pinions on her breast ! 
On Seraph wing I'd float a Dream by night. 
To soothe my Love with shadows of delight :— 
Or soar alofl to be the Spangled Skies, 
And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes ! 

As when the savage, who his drowsy frame 
Had basked beneath the Sun's unclouded flame, 
Awakes amid the troubles of the air. 
The skyey deluge, and white lightning's glare — 
Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep. 
And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep : — 
So tossed by storms along Life's wildering way. 
Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day, 
When by my native brook I wont to rove, 
While Hope with kisses nursed the Infant Love. 

Dear native brook ! like Peace, so placidly 
Smoothing through fertile fields thy current meek 
Dear native brook I where first young Poesy 
Stared wildly-eager in her noontide dream I 
Where blameless pleasures dimple duiet's cheek, 
As water-lilies ripple thy slow stream I 
Dear native haunts I where Virtue still is gay. 
Where Friendship's fix'd star sheds a mellowed ray. 
Where Love a crown of thornless Roses wears, 
Where softened Sorrow smiles within her tears ; 
And Memory, with a Vestal's chaste employ, 
Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of joy I 
No more your sky-larks melting from the sight 
Shall thrill the attuned heart-string with delight^ 
!No more shall deck your pensive Pleasures sweet 
With ^\^:eaths of sober hue my evening seat. 
Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied scene 
Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook between ! 
Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled song, 
That soars on Morning's wing your vales among. 


Scenes of my Hope ! the aching eye yoa leave 
Like yon bright hues that paint the clouds of eve ; 
Tearful and saddcoing with the saddened blaze 
Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze : 
ISecs sfaodes on shades with deeper tint impend. 
Till chili and damp the moonless night descend. 

As late each flower that aweetct blows 
I plucked, the Garden's pride ! 
Within the petals of a Rose 
A sleeping Love I spied. 

Around his brows a. beamy wreath 
Of many n lucent hue ; 
All purple glowed his cheek, beneath, 
Inebriate with dew. 

I sollly seized the unguarded Power, 
Nor scared his balmy rest : 
And placed him, caged within the flower, 
On spotless Sara's breast. 

But when unweeting of the guile 
Awoke the prisoner sweet. 
He struggled to escape awhile 
And stamped his faery feet. 

Ah ! soon the soul .en trancing sight 

Subdued the impatient boy ! 

He gazed 1 he thrilled with deep delight 1 

Theu clapped his wings for joy. 

" And !" he cried — " of magic kind 

What charms this Throne endear ! 

Some other Lovo let Venus find— 

I'll R\ my empire here." 



One kiss, dear maid ! I said and sighed — 

Your scorn the little boon denied. 

Ah why refuse the blameless bliss ? 

Can danger lurk within a kiss ? 

Yon viewless Wanderer of the vale, 

The Spirit of the Western Gale, 

At Morning's break, at Evening's close 

Inhales the sweetness of the Rose, 

And hovers o'er the uninjured Bloom 

Sighing back the sofl perfume. 

Vigor to the Zephyr's wing 

Her nectar-breathing Kisses fling ; 

And He the glitter of the Dew 

Scatters on the Rose's hue. 

Bashful lo ! she bends her head, 

And darts a blush of deeper Red ! 

Too well those lovely lips disclose 
The triumphs of the opening Rose ; 
fair ! graceful ! bid them prove 
As passive to the breath of Liove. 
Tn tender accents, faint and low. 
Well-pleased I hear the whispered " No I" 
The whispered " No" — how little meant ! 
Sweet Falsehood that endears Consent ! 
For on those lovely lips the while 
Da>\iifi the soft relenting smile, 
And tempts with feigned dissuasion coy 
The gentle violence of Joy. 


Poor little Foal of an oppressed Race ! 
I K»ve the languid Patience of thy face ; 
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread, 
And clap thy ragged Coat, and pat thy head. 


But what thy dulled Spints hath dismayed, 

That never thou dost sport along the glade ? 

And (most unlike the nature of things young) 

That earthward still thy moveless head is liuog ? 

Do thy prophetic Fears anticipate, 

Meek Child of MJBery I thy future fate ? 

The starving meal, and all the thousand ache^ 

" Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes 1" 

Or is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain 

To see thy wretched Mother's shortened Chain ? 

And, truly very piteous is her Lot — 

Chained to a Log within a narrow spot. 

Where the close-eaten Grass is scarcely seen, 

While Bweet arouud her waves the tempting Green I 

Poor Abb ! thy master should have learnt to show 

Pily — beat taught by fellowehip of Woe ! 

For much I fear me that He lives like thee, 

Half famished in a land of Luxury ! 

How aekingly its footsteps hither bend, 

It seems to say, " And have I then one Friend ?" 

Innocent Foal I thou poor despised Forlorn ! 

I hail thee Brother — spite of the fool's scorn ! 

And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell 

Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell. 

Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his faride, 

And Laughter ticklo Plenty's riblesa aide '. 

How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play. 

And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay I 

Yea ! and more musically swecl to me 

Thy dissonant harsh hray of joy would bo. 

Than warhled melodies that soothe to rest 

The aching of palo Fashion's vacant breast ! 


On wide, or narrow scale shall Man 
Most happily describe life's plan ? 
Say, shall he bloom and wither there. 
Where first his infant buds aiipear ; 


Or upwards dart with soaring force, 
And tempt some more ambitious course ? 

Obedient now to Hope's command, 
I bid each humble -wish expand, 
And fair and bright Life's prospects seem* 
While Hope displays her cheering beam, 
And Fancy's vivid colorings stream, 
While Emulation stands me nigh 
The Goddess of the eager eye. 

With foot advanc'd and anxious heart 
Now for the fancied goal I start : — 
Ah I why will Reason intervene 
Me and my promised joys between I 
She stops my course, she chains my speed 
While thus her forceful words proceed. 
" Ah I listen, youth, ere yet too late. 
What evils on thy course may wait I 
To bow the head, to bend the knee 
A minion of Servility, 
At low Pride's frequent frowns to sigh, 
And watch the glance in Folly's eye ; 
To toil intense, vet toil in vain, 
And feel with what a hollow pain 
Pale Disappointment hangs her head 
O'er darling Expectation dead I 

" The scene is changed and Fortune's gale 
Shall belly out each prosperous sail. 
Yet sudden wealth full well I know 
Did never Happiness bestow. 
That wealth, to which we were not born 
Dooms us to sorrow or to scorn. 
Behold yon flock which long had trod 
O'er the short grass of Devon's sod, 
To Lincoln's rank rich meads transferr'd, 
And in their fate thy own be fear'd ; 
Through every limb contagions fly, 
Deform'd and chok'd they burst and die. 

" When Luxury opens wide her arms, 
And smiling woos thee to those charms. 


Whose fasciuation thousands own, 
Shall thy brows wear the stoic frown ? 
And when her goblet she extends 
Which madd'ning myiiadg press around, 
What power divine thy soul befriends 
That thou shouldst dash it to the ground ? — 
No, thou shall drink, and thou shalt liuow 
Her transient hliss, her lasting woe, 
Her maniac joys, that know no measure. 
And riot rude and painted pleasure ; — 
Till (sad reverse I) the Enchantress vile 
To frowns converts her tn^o smile ; 
Her train impatient to destroy, 
Observe her fro\ni with gloomy joy ; 
On thee with harpy fangs they seize 
The hideous ofTspring of Disease, 
SwoU'ii Dropsy ignorant of Rest, 
And Fever garb'd in scarlet vest. 
Consumption driving the quick hearse. 
And Gout that howls the frequent cum. 
With Apoplex of heavy head 
That surely aims his dart of lead. 

"But say. Life's joys immix'd were giTCU 
To iheo some favorite of Heaven : 
Within, without, tho' all were health — 
Yet what o'en thus arc Fainu, Power, Wealth, 
But sounds that variously express, 
What's thine already — Happiness ! 
'Tis thine the converse deep to hold 
With all the famous sons of old ; 
And thine the happy waking dream 
While Hope pursues some favorite theme. 
As oft when M'^ht o'er Heaven is spread. 
Round this maternal scat you tread. 
Where far from splendor, far from riot. 
In silence wrapt sleeps careless quiet. 
'Tis thino with fancy oft to talk, 
And thine tho peaceful evening walk ; 
And what to thee the sweetest are — 
The aetliug sun, the eveiiiuir star — 

i8 JUVENILE 1'0£M& 

The tints, which live along the sky, 
And Moon that meets thy raptured eyo, 
Where ofl the tear shall grateful start, 
Dear silent pleasures of the Heart ! 
Ah ! Being hlest, for Heaven shall lend 
To share thy simple joys a friend ! 
Ah ! douhly hlest, if Love supply 
His influence to complete thy joy, 
If chance some lovely maid thou find 
To read thy visage in thy mind. 

" One blessing more demands thy care : — 
Once more to Heaven address the prayer : 
For humble independence pray 
The guardian genius of thy way ; 
"WTiom (sages say) in days of yore 
Meek competence to wisdom bore, 
So shall thy little vessel glide 
With a fair breeze adown the tide, 
And Hope, if e'er thou 'ginst to sorrow 
Remind thee of some fair to-morrow, 
Till death shall close thy tranquil eye 
While Faith proclaims * thou shalt not die I 


Tell me, on what holy ground 
May Domestic Peace be found — 
Halcyon Daughter of the skies ! 
Far on fearful wings she flies, 
From the pomp of sceptercd State, 
From the Rebel's noisy hate, 
In a cottaged vale She dwells 
Listening to the Sabbath bells ! 
Still around her steps are seen 
Spotless Honor's meeker mien. 
Love, the sire of pleasing fears. 
Sorrow smiling through her tears. 
And conscious of the past employ 
Memory, bosom-spring of joy. 



yfuEH Youth his faery reign began 
Ere lorrow had proulaimed me man ; 
While Peace the present hour beguiled. 
And all the lovely Prospect smiled ; 
Then Mary ! 'mid my Lightwrae gleo 
I heav'd the painless Sigh for thee. 

And when, along the waves of woe. 
My harasBcd Heart was doomed to know 
Tha frantic hurst of Oulrage kemi, 
And the slow Pang that gnaws unseen ; 
Then Bhipwreckcd on Lite's stormy sea 
-- 1 heaved an anguinliuJ Sigh for thee ! 

~ But soon Reflection's power imprest 
A stiller sadness on my breast ; 
And sickly hope with waning eye 
Was well content to droop and die : 
T yielded to the stern decree, 
Yet heaved a languid Sigh for thee ! 

And though in distant climes to roam, 
A wanderer from my native home, 
I fain would soothe the sense of Care, 
And lull to sleep the Joys that were, 
Thy Image may not banished be — 
Still, Mary ! still 1 sigh for thee. 
June 179J. 


Kr.E Sin conld blight or Sorrow fade. 
Death came with friendly care, 

Tlie opening bud to Heaven conveyed. 
And bade it blossom there. 




All are not bom to soar — and ah ! how few 

In tracks, where TVisdom leads, their paths puisne ! 

Contagious when to wit or wealth allied, 

Folly and Vice difiuse their venom wide. 

On Folly every fool his talent tries ; 

It asks some toil to imitate the wise ; 

Tho' few like Fox can speak — like Pitt can think— 

Yet all like Fox can game — ^like Pitt can drink. 


O, Curas homlniui] I O, qoantam est in rebus ioane 1 

The fervid Sun had more than halv'd the day, . 

When gloomy on his couch Philedon lay ; 

His feeble frame consumptive as his purse, - . 

His aching head did wine and women curse ; 

His fortune ruin'd and his wealth decayed. 

Clamorous his Duns, his gaming debts unpaid, 

The youth indignant seiz'd his tailor's bill, 

And on its back thus wrote with moral quill : 

*' Various as colors in the rainbow shown. 

Or similar in emptiness alone, 

How false, how vain are Man's pursuits below ! 

Wealth, Honor, Pleasure — what can ye bestow ? 

Yet see, how high and low, and young and old 

Pursue the all delusive power of Gold. 

Fond man ! should all Peru thy empire own. 

For thee tho* all Golconda's jewels shone. 

What greater bliss could all this wealth supply ? 

What, but to eat and drink and sleep and die ? 

Go, tempt the stormy sea, the burning soil — 

Go, waste the night in thought, the day in toil. 

Dark frowns the rock, and fierce the tempests ravo — 

Thy ingots go the unconscious deep to pave ! 

Or thunder at thy door the midnight train, 

Or death shall knock that never knocks in vain. 

Next Honor's sons come bustling on amain ; 

I laugh with pity at the idle train. 


Infirm of soul ! who think'st to lift thy name 

ITpon the waxen wings of human fame, — 

Who for a sound, articulated breath — 

Gazest undaunted in the face of death ! 

What art thou but a Meteor's glaring light — 

Blazing a moment and then sunk in night ? 

Caprice which rais'd thee high shall hurl thee low. 

Or envy blast the laurels on thy brow. 

To sneh poor joys could ancient Honor lead 

When empty fame was toiling Merita mead ; 

To Modem Honor other lays belong ; 

Profuse of joy and Lord of right and wrong. 

Honor can game, drink, riot in the stew. 

Cut a friend's throat ; — what can not Honor do ? 

Ah me — the storm within can Honor still 

For Julio's death, whom Honor made me kill ? 

Or will this lordly Honor tell the way 

To pay those debte, which Honor makes me pay ? 

Or if with pistol and terrific threats 

I make some traveller pay my Honor's debts, 

A med'cine forthb wound can Honor give ? 

Ah, no 1 my Honor dies to make my Honor live. 

But see ! young Pleasure and hor train advance. 

And joy and laughter wake the inebriate dance ; 

Around my neck she throws her fair white arms, 

I meet her loves, and madden at her charms. 

For the gay grape can joys celestial move, 

And what so sweet below as Woman's love ? 

With such high transport every moment (lies, 

I curse experience, that he makes me wise ; 

For at his frown the dear deliriums Qew, 

And the cbang'd scene now wears a gloomy hn«. 

A hideous hag th' Enchantress Pleasure seems. 

And all her joys appear but feverous dreams 

The vain Resolve still broken and still made. 

Disease and loathing and remorse invade ; 

The charm is vanish'd and the bubble's broke,-* 

A slave to pleasure is a slave to smoke I" 

Such lays repentant did the Muse supply ; 

When as the Snn was hastening down the sky, 


In glittering state twice fifly guineas come, — 

His Mother's plate antique had rais*d the sum 

Forth leap'd Philedon of new life possest : — 

*Twas Brookes's all till two, — 'twas Hackett's all the lett * 


Deep in the gulf of Vice and Woe 

Leaps man at once with headlong throw ? 

Him inborn Truth and Virtue guide, 

Whose guards are shame and conscious pride ; 

In some gay hour Vice steals into the breast ; 

Perchance she wears some sofler Virtue's vest. 

By unperceiv'd degrees she tempts to stray, 
Till far from Virtue's path she leads the feet away. 

Then swifl the soul to disenthrall 

Will Memory the past recall, 

And fear before the Victim's eyes 

Bid future ills and dangers rise. 
But hark I the voice, the lyre, their charms combined- 
Gay sparkles in the cup the generous wine ; 
Th' inebriate dance — the fair frail nymph inspires, 
And Virtue vanquish'd — scorn'd — with hasty flight retires. 

But soon to tempt the pleasures cease ; 
Yet shame forbids return to peace, 
And stern necessity will force 


Still to urge on the desperate course. 
The drear black paths of Vice the wretch must try, 
Where Conscience flashes horror on each eye, 
Where Hate — where Murder scowl — where starts AJTright ! 
Ah I close the scene, — ah I close — for dreadful is the sight. 




Richer than Miser o'er his countless hoards, 
Nobler than Kings, or king-polluted Lords, 


Here dwelt iho Man of Roes I TraveLer, hear ! 

Departed Merit claims a reverent teat. 

Friend to the frieadless, to the sick man health, 

With geuerouB joy he viewed his modest wealth ; 

He heard the widow's heaven- breathed prayer of praise 

He marked the sheltered orphan's tearful gaze, 

Or where the sorrow shrivelled captive lay, 

Pour'd the bright blaze of Freedom's noon-tide ray, 

Bi-neath this roof if thy cheered moments pass, 

Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass : 

To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul, 

And Virtue mingle in the ennobled bowl. 

But if, like me, through life's distressful scene 

Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been ; 

And if thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught. 

Thou joumeyest onward tempest-tossed in thought 

Here cheat thy cares ! in generous visions melt, 

And dream of Goodness, thou hast never felt ' 


Heabd'st thou yon universal cry, 

And doat thou linger still on flallia's shore ? 
Go, Tyranny 1 beneath some barbarous sky 
Thy terrors lost, and ruin'd power deplore t 

What tho' through many a groaning age 

Was felt thy keen suspicious rage, 

Yet Freedom rous'd by fierce Disdain 

Has wildly broke thy triple chain, 
And like tho storm which earth's deep entrails hide, 
At length has burst its way and spread the ruins wide 

In sighs their sickly breath was spent ; each gleam 
Of Hope had ceas'd the long long clay to cheer ; 

Or if delusive, in some flitting dream. 

It gave them to their friends and children dear— 


Awak'd by lordly Insult's sound 
To all the doubled horrors round, 
Oft shrunk they from Oppression's band 
While anguish rais'd the desperate hand 
For silent death ; or lost the mind's control, 
Thro' every burning vein would tides of Frenzy roll 


But cease, ye pitying bosoms, cease to bleed ! 

Such scenes no more demand the tear humane ; 
I see, I see ! glad Liberty succeed 
With every patriot virtue in her train ! 
And mark yon peasant's raptured eyes ; 
Secure he views his harvests rise ; 
No fetter vile the mind shall know, 
And Eloquence shall fearless glow. 
Yes ! Liberty the soul of Life shall reign, 
Shall throb in every pulse, shall flow thro' every vein ! 


Shall France alone a Despot spurn ? 

Shall she alone, Freedom, boast thy care ? 
Lo, round thy standard Belgia's heroes burn, 

Tho* Power's blood-stain'd streamers fire the air, 

And wider yet thy influence spread, 

Nor e'er recline thy weary head, 

Till every land from pole to pole 

Shall boast one independent soul ! 
And still, as erst, let favor'd Britain be 
•First ever of the first and freest of the free I 



Once more, sweet Stream ! with slow foot wandenng near, 
I bless thy milky waters cold and clear. 
Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours, 
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers 
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn) 
My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn. 
For not through pathless grove with murmur rude 
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude ; 


Nor thine uiueen ia caTern depths to well. 
The heraiit-fouiitaiti of Bome dripping cell ! 
PriJe of the Vale ! thy useful Btreams (upply 
The scattered coti and peaceful hamlet nigh. 
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks 
With infant uproar and loul-soothing pranks, 
Released from school, their little hearts at rest. 
Launch paper-naries on thy waveless breast. 
The rustic here at eve with penaive look 
Whistling lorn ditties.leana upon his crook, 
Or starting pauses with hope-mingled dread 
To list the much-loved maid's accustomed tread : 
She, vainly mindful of her dame's command. 
Loiters, the long-filled pitcher in her hand. 

Unboastfal Stream ! thy fount with pebbled falls 
The faded form of past delight recalls. 
What time the morning sun of Hope arose, 
And all was joy ; save when another's woes 
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest. 
Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast. 
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon. 
Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon : 
Ah ! now it works rude brakes and thorns among. 
Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along '. 



Edhond ! thy grave with aching eye 1 scan. 

And inly groan lor Heaven's poor outcast — Man ! 

'Tis tempest all or gloom : in early youth 

If gifled with the Ithuriei lance of Truth 

We force to start amid her feigned caress ■ 

Vice, siren-hag ! in native ugliness ; 

A Brother's fate will haply rouse the tear. 

And on we go in heaviness and fear I 

But if our fond heurts call to Pleasure's bower 

Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour. 

The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted gtonni. 


And mingled forms of Misery rise around : 

Heart-fretting Fear, with pallid look aghast. 

That courts the future woe to hide the past ; 

Remorse, the poisoned arrow in his side, 

And loud lewd Mirth, to Anguish close allied : 

Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping pain. 

Darts her hot lightning-flash athwart the brain. 

Rest, injur'd shade ! Shall Slander squatting near 

Spit her cold venom in a dead Man's ear ? 

Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow 

In Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe ; 

Thine all, that cheer the moment as it flies, 

The zoneless Cares, and smihng Courtesies. 

Nursed in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew. 

And in thy heart they withered I Such chill dew 

Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed ; 

And Vanity her filmy net- work spread. 

With eye that rolled around in asking gaze, 

And tonjnie that trafficked in the trade of praise. 

Thy i<»llie8 such I the hard world marked them well ! 

Were they more wise, the proud who never fell ? 

Rest, injured shade ! the poor man's grateful prayer 

On heaven-ward wing the wounded soul shall bear. 

As ofl at twilight gloom thy grave I pass, 

And sit me down upon its recent grass, 

With introverted eye I contemplate 

Similitude of soul, perhaps of — fate ; 

To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assigned 

Energic Reason and a shaping mind, 

The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part. 

And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart. 

Sloth-jaundiced all ! and from my graspless hand 

Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass sand. 

I weep, yet stoop not ! the faint anguish flows, 

A dreamy pang in Morning's feverous doze. 

Is this piled earth our Being's passless mound ? 
Tell me, cold grave I is death with poppies crowned ? 
Tired Sentinel ! mid fitful starts I nod, 
And fain would sleep, though pillowed on a clod ! 



MccH on my early youth I love to dwell. 

Ere yet I baJe that friendly dome farewell, 

Where firet, beneath the echoing cloiBters pale, 

1 heard of guilt and wondered at the tale 1 

Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing. 

Full heavily of Sorrow would 1 Eiiig. 

Aye HB the Etsr of evening flung its beam 

In broken radiance on the wary Btrcam. 

My Boul amid the pensive twilight gloom 

Mourned with the breeze, Lee Boo 1* o'er thy tomb 

Where'er I wandered. Pity still was near. 

Breathed from the heart and glistened in the tear : 

No knell that lolled, bnt filled my aiixiouB eye, 

And Buffering Nature wept that one should die !t 

Thus to Bad sympathies I soothed my breast, 

Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping WeH : 

When slumbering Freedom roused by high Disdain 

With giant fury burst her triple chain ! 

Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glowed ; 

Her bannen), like a miduight meteor, flowed ; 

Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies 

She came, and Ecattcrcd battles from her eyes ! 

Then Esultatinn waked the patriot-lire 

And swept with wild hand the Tyrta^an lyre : 

Red from the Tyrant's wound I shook the lanee, 

And strode in joy the recking plains of France ! 

Fallen is the oppreeaor, fricndlees, gliastly, low. 
And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow. 
With wearied thought once more 1 seek the shade, 
Where peaceful Virtue weaves the myrtle hraid. 

' L«« Boo, the Bon of Abbn 1'liule, Trince of the Pelev Isluida. eamt 
oter to England with Captain Wilson, died of the small-poi. and is burieil 
io QrcMivich cburcb-yard. 3ce Keate'a AcuaunL 

f Southey'a B«tro«pci;l. 


And ! if Eyes whose holy glances roll, 
Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul ; 
If Smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien 
Than the love-wildered Maniac's brain hath seen 
Shaping celestial forms in vacant air, 
If these demand the impassioned Poet's care^ 
If Mirth and soflened Sense and Wit refined, 
The blameless features of a lovely mind ; 
Then haply shaU my trembling hand assign 
No fading wreath to Beauty's saintly shrine. 
Nor, Sara I thou these early flowers refuse — 
Ne'er lurked the snake beneath their simple hues ; 
No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings 
From Flattery's night-shade : as he feels he singi. 
September, 1792. 


" Content, as random Fancies might inspire, 
If his weak harp at times or lonely lyre 
He struck with desultorv hand, and drew 
Some softened tones to Nature not untrue." 


My heart has thanked thee, Bowles I for those sofl strainf 

Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring 

Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring ! 

For hence not callous to the mourner's pains 

Throunrh. Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went: 

And when the mightier throes of mind began, 

And drove me forth, a thought-bewildered man, 

Their mild and manliest melancholy lent 

A mingled charm, such as the pang consigned 

To slumber, though the big tear it renewed ; 

Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood 

Over the wavy and tumultuous mind. 

As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep 

Moved on the darkness of the unformed deep. 



As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale, 

'^ith wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise, 

I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise ; 

She spake ! not sadder moans the autumnal gal^— 

' Great Son of Genius ! sweet to me thy name, 

Ere in an evil hour with altered voice 

rhou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice 

Blasting with wizard spell my laurelled fame. 

Yet never, Burke I thou drank' st Corruption's bowl . 

Thee stormy Pity and the cherished lute 

Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul 

Wildered with meteor (ires. Ah Spirit pur.) ! 

That error's mist had left thy purged eye : 

So might I clasp thee with a Uother's joy !" 


Thouoh roused by that dark Vizir Riot rode 
Have driven our Priestley o'er the ocean swell ; 
Though Superstition and her wolfish brood 
Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell ; 
Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell ! 
For lo ! Religion at his strong behest 
Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell, 
And flings to earth her tinsel-gUlteriog vest, 
Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy ; 
And Justice wakes to bid tho Oppressor wail 
Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly : 
And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won 
Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil 
To smile with fondness on her gazing son ! 

When British Freedom for a happier land 
Spread her broad wiuga, that fluttered with aSHght, 
Enkine I thy voice she heard, and paused her flight 
Sublime of hope '. For dreadless thou didit stand 


(Thy censer glowing with the hallowed flame) 

A hircless Priest before the insulted shrine, 

And at her altar pour the stream divine 

Of unmatched eloquence. Therefore thy name 

Hor sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast 

With blessings heaven-ward breathed. And when the doom 

Of nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb 

Thy light shall shine : as sunk beneath the West 

Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze. 

Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze. 


It was some Spirit, Sheridan ! that breathed 

O'er thy young mind such wildly various power ! 

My soul hath marked thee in her shaping hour. 

Thy temples with Hymmettian flowerets wreathed . 

And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier 

Sad music trembled through Vauclusa*s glade ; 

Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn Serenade 

That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening ear. 

Now patriot rage and indignation high 

Swell the full tones I And now thine eye-beams dance 

Meanings of Soorn and Wit's quaint revelry I 

Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance 

The Apostate by the brainless rout adored, 

As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's sword 


WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there, 

As though a thousand souls one death-groan poured ! 

Ah me I they saw beneath a hireling's sword 

Their Kosciusko fall I Through the swart air 

(As pauses the tired Cofsac's barbarous yell 

Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale 

Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell 

The dirge of murdered Hope I while Freedom pala 

Bends in such anguish o er her destined bier. 


All if from eldest time some Spirit meek 

Had gathered in a inystii^ urn each tear 

That ever oh a Patriot's furrowed cheek 

Fit channel found, and she had drained the bowl 

In the mere wilfultiess, and sick despair of soul! 


As when far off the warliled slraiiis are heard 

That soar on Morning's wing the vales among, 

Within his cage the imprisozietl matin bird 

Swells the full chorus with a gencraua soug ' 

He bathes no pinion iu the dewy lighi, 

No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss be shares, 

Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sigh' ; 

His fellon's' freedom soothes the captive's cares ! 

Thou, Fayette ! who didst wake with startling voice 

Life's better snn from that long wintrj- night, , 

Thus in thy Country's tiiiimphs shall rejoice, 

And mock with raptures high the dungeon's inii[ht : 

For io ! the morning struggles into day. 

And Slavery's spectres sliriek and vanish from the ^av ! 


Tlion gentle Look, that didst my soni beguile. 

Why hast tliou Icfl me ? Still in some fond dream 

Bevisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile ! 

As falls on closicig flowers the lunar beam : 

What time, in aiekly mood, at parting day 

I lajr me down and think of happier years ; 

Of Jnys, that glimmered in Hope's twilight ray, 

Then lefl me darkling iu a vale of tears. 

pleasant days of hope — forever gone ! — 

Could I recall you !— But that thought is vain. 

Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone 

To lure the fleet-winged Travellers back again : 

Yet fair, though faint, their images shall f>leam 

Like the bright Rainbow on a willowy atream. 



Pale Eoamer through the night ! thou poor Forlorn ! 

Remorse that man on his death-hed possess, 

Who in the credulous hour of tenderness 

Betrayed, then cast thee forth to want and scorn I 

The world is pitiless : the chaste one's pride 

Mimic of Virtue scowls on thy distress : 

Thy Loves and they, that envied thee, deride : 

And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness ! 

! I could weep to think, that there should be 

Cold- bosomed lewd ones, who endure to place 

Foul oHerings on the shrine of misery. 

And force from famine the caress of Love ; 

May He shed healing on the sore disgrace, 

He, the great Comforter that rules above ! 


Sweet Mercy I how my ver)' heart has bled 

To see thee, poor Old Man ! and thy gray hairs 

Hoar with the snowy blast : while no one cares 

To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head. 

My Father I throw away this tattered vest 

That mocks thy shivering ! take my garment — ^use 

A young man's arm ! I'll melt these frozen dews 

That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast. 

My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child : 

And thou shalt talk, in our fireside's recess, 

Of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness. 

He did not so, the Galilean mild, 

Who met the Lazars turned from rich men's doors. 

And called them Friends, and healed their noisome tores ! 


Thou bleedest, my poor Heart ! and thy distress 
Reason ing I ponder with a scornful smile, 
And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while 
Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness. 


Vthy didst thon liaten to Hope's whisper bland ? 
Or, listening, why forftet the healing tale, 
When Jealousy with feveroua fancies pale 
Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's band ? 
Faint was that Hope, and layless! — Yet 'twas fair. 
And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest : 
Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprett. 
And nursed it with an agony of care. 
Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir 
That wan and sickly droops upon her breast ! 


Schiller. '. that hour I would have wished to die. 
If through the shuddering midnight I had sent 
From the dark dungeon of the tower time- rent 
That fearful voice, a famished Father's cry — 
Lest in some after-moment aught more mean 
Might stamp me mortal ! A triumphant shout 
Black Horror screamed, and all her goblin rout 
Diminished shrunk from the more withering scene ! 
Ah ! Bard tremendous in sublimity ! 
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood 
Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye 
Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood '. 
Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood : 
Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy. 


Wrm many a pause and oft-reverted eye 
I climb the Coomb's ascent : sweet songsters nc 
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody ; 
Far oS the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear. 
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock 


That on green plots o'er precipices browse : 

From the deep fissures of the naked rock 

The Yew tree bursts ! Beneath its dark green boughfl 

(Mid which the May-thorn blends its biossoms white) 

AVhere broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, 

I rest : — and now have gained the topmost site. 

Ah ! what a luxury of landscape meets 

My gaze ! Proud towers, and cots more dear to me, 

Eim-shadow'd fields, and prospect-bounding sea ! 

Deep sighs my lonely heart : I drop the tear : 

Enchanting spot I were my Sajra here ! 



Peace, that on a lilied bank dost love 
To rest thine head beneath an olive tree, 

1 would, that Iroin the pinions of thy dove 
One quill withouten pain ypluckcd might be ! 
For ! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee. 

And fain to her some soothing song would write, 

Lest she resent my rude disconrtesy, 

AViio vowed to meet her ere the morning light, 

But broke my plighted wroid — ah I false and recreant wight! 

Last night as I my weary head did pillow 

With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrost, 

Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow, 

As tliough my breast entombed a pining ghost. 

*• From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal boast, 

Rejected Slumber I hither wing tliy way ; 

But leave me with the matin hour, at most ! 

As night-closed floweret to the orient ray. 

My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey/ 


But Love, who heard the silence of my thought, 
Contrived a too successful wile, I ween : 
And whispered to himself, with malice fraught — 
" Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen : 
To-morrow shall he ken her alterel mien!" 


He spake, and ambushed Uy, lili on my bed 

The morning shot her dewy glances keen, 

When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head — 

" Now, Bard 1 I'll work ihee woe !" tho laughing Elfin said. 

Sleep, softly-breathing God 1 his downy wing 

Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart ; 

When twanged an arrow from Lore's mystic string, 

With pathleag wound it pierced him to the heart. 

Was there some magic in the ElJin's dart? 

Or (lid he strike my couch with wizard lance 7 

For straight so fair a Form did upwards start 

(No fairer decked the bowers of old Romance) 

That Sleep enamored grew, nor moved from his aweet trance I 

My Sara came, with gentlest look divine ; 

Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam : 

I felt the pressure of her lip to mine ! 

Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme — 

Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem, 

He sprang from Muaven ! Such joys with Sleep did 'bide 

That I the living image of my dream. 

Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and aigh'd — 

'• ' how shall I behold my Love at even-tide I" 


The stream with languid murmur creeps, 

In Lumin's flowery vale i 
Beneath the dew tho Lily weeps 

Slow- waving to the gale. 

" Cease, restless gale ! it seems to say, 

Nor wake mo with thy sighing ! 
The honors of my vernal day 

On rapid wing are flying. 

■■ To-morrow shall tho Traveller come 

Who late beheld me blooming : 
His searching eye shall vainly roam 

The dreary vale of Lumin." 



With eager gaze and wetted cheek 

My wonted haunts along, 
Thus, faithful Maiden ! thou shalt seek 

The Youth of simplest song. 

But I along the breeze shall roll 

The voice of feeble power ; 
And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy seal. 

In Slumber's nightly hour. 


How long will ye round me be swelling, 

ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea ? 
Not always in caves was my dwelling, 

Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree. 
Through the high-sounding haUs of Cathl6ma 

In the steps of my beauty I strayed ; 
The warriors beheld Ninath6ma, 

And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid ! 

A Ghost I by my cavern it darted I 

In moon-beams the Spirit was drest — 
For lovely appear the departed 

When they visit the dreams of my rest I 
But disturbed by the tempest's commotion 

Fleet the shadowy forms of delight — 
Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean ! 

To howl through my cavern by night. 


If, while my passion I impart. 
You deem my words untrue, 

place your hand upon my heart — 
Feel how it throbs for you ! 

Ah no ! reject the thoughtless claim 

In pity to your Lover ! 
That thrilling touch would aid the flame, 

It wishes to discover. 



Ah ! cease thy lean and sobs, iny little Lire ! 

I did but match away the unclasped knife : 

Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye, 

And to quick laughter change this peevish cry 1 

Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of woe, 

Tutored hy pain each source of pain to know I 

Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire 

Awake thy eager grasp and young desire ; 

Alike the Good, the III ofiend thy sight, 

And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright I 

Untaught, yet wise! mid all thy brief alarms 

Thou closely cUngest to thy mother's arms. 

Nestling thy little face in that fond breast 

Whose anxious heavinga lull thee to thy rest! 

Man's breathing Miniature I thou mak'st me sigh — 

A Babe art thou — and such a Thing am I ! 

To anger rapid and as soou appeased, 

For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased 

Break Friendship's mirror with a tetchy blow. 

Yet snatch what coals of lire on Pleasure's altar glow I 

thou that reareat with celestial aim 

The future Seraph in my mortal frame. 

Thrice holy Faith ! whatever thorns I meet 

As on I totter with unpractised feet. 

Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee, 

Heek nurse of souls through their long infancy I 

Oood verse most good, and bad verse then seems better 

Eeceired from absent friend by way of Letter. 

For what so sweet .am labored lays impurt 

As ODS rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart t — iXon 

Nor travels my meandering eye 
The starry wildemesa on high ; 


Nor now with curious sight 
I mark the glow-worm, as 1 pass. 
Move with '^greeu radiance" through the griss. 

An emerald of light. 

ever present to my view I 
My waited spirit is with you, 

And soothes your hoding fears : 

1 st^ you all oppressed with gloom 
Sit bnely in that cheerless room — 

Ah ine ! You are in tears ! 

Boloved Woman I did you fly 

Chilled Friendship's dark disliking eye. 

Or Mirth's untimely din ? 
AVith cruel weight these trifles press 
A temper sore with tenderness, 

AVheii aches the Void within. 

But why with sable wand unblest 
Should Fancy rouse within my breast 

Dim-visaped shapes of Dread ? 
Untenanting its beauteous clay 
My Sara's soul has winged its way, 

And hovers round mv head ! 

1 felt it prompt the tender dream, 
AVIuMi slowly sank the day's last gleam ; 

You roused each gentler sense. 
As si<rhiiig o'er the blossom's bloom 
Meek Evening wakes its soil perfume 

With viewless influence. 

And hark, mv Love ! The sea-breeze moana 
Through yon reft house I O'er rolling stones 

In bold ambitious sweej), 
Tlie onward-surging tides supply 
The silence of the cloudless sky 

With mimic thunders deep. 

Dark reddening from the channelled Isle* 
(Where stands one solitary pile 

* The Holmes, io the Bristol Cbannd. 


Unelated by tlio blast) 
The watchfiie, like a sullea slar, 
Twinkles to many a dozing tar 

RuUe cradled oa the maat. 

Even there — beneath that light-houBS lower- 
In the tumultuous evil hour 

Ere Peace with Sara came, 
Time was, I should have thought it eweet 
To count theechoings of my feet, 

And watch the etorm-vexed flame. 

And there in black Mul-jaundiced fit 
A sad gloom-pampered Man to sit, 

And listen to the roar : 
When mountain surges bellowing deep 
With an uncouth monster leap 

Plunged Ebaming on the shore. 

Then by the lightning's blaze to mark 
Some toiling tempest-shattered bark ; 

Her vain distress-guns hear ; 
And when a second sheet of light 
Flashed o'er the blackness of the nights 

To sec no vessel there ! 

But Fancy now more gaily sings ; 
Or if awhile she droop her wings, 

As sky-larks 'mid the corn. 
On summer fields she grounds her breast : 
The oblivious poppy o'er bcr neat 

Nods, till returning morn 

O mark those smiling tear& that swell 
The opened rose ! From heaven they fell, 

And with the Bun-beam blend. 
Blest visitations from above, 
Such are the lender woes of Love 

Fostering the heart they bend I 

tVhen stormy Uiduight howling round 
Beau on our roof with clattering Boun&, 


To me your arms you'll stretch : 
Great God ! you'll say — To us so kind, 

shelter firom this loud bleak wind 
The houseless, friendless wretch ! 

The tears that tremble down your cheek« 
Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek 

In Pity's dew divine ; 
And from your heart the sighs that steal 
Shall make your rising bosom feel 

The answering swell of mine ! 

How ody my Love ! with shapings sweet 

1 paint the moment we shall meet ! 

With eager speed I dart — 
I seize you in the vacant air, 
And fancy, with a husband's care 

I press you to my heart ! 

'Tis said, in Summer's evening hour 
Flashes the golden-colored flower 

A fair electric flame : 
And so shall flash my love-charged eye 
Vihen all the heart's big ecstasy 

Shoots rapid through the frame ! 



AwAT, those cloudy looks, that laboring sigh, 
The peevish oOspring of a sickly hour ! 
Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's power. 
When the blind gamester throws a luckless die. 

Yon setting sun flashes a mournful gleam 
Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train : 
To-morrow shall the many-colored main 
In brightness roll beneath his orient beam ! 

Wild, as the autumnal gust, the hand of Time 
Flies o'er his mystic lyre : in shadowy dance 


The alternate gmupe of Joy and Grief advance 
Beqxmsive to his varying itrains Bublime I 

Bears on its 'wing each hour a load of Fate ; 

The swain, who, lulled by Seine's mild murmurs, led 

His weary oxen to their nightly shed. 

To-day may rule a tempest-troubled State. 

Not shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile 
Survey the s&nguinary despot's might. 
And haply hurl the pageant from his height 
Unwept to wander in some savage isle. 

There shiv'ring sad beneath the tempest's frown 
Round his tired limbs to wrap the purple vest ; 
And mixed with nails and beads, an equal jest ! 
Barter for food the jewels of his erowa. 


This is the time, whan most divine to hear, 

The voice of adoration rouses me, 

As with a Cherub's trump : and high upborne, 

Yea, mingling «-ith the choir, I seem to view 

Th» vision of the heavenly multitude, 

Who hymned the song of peace o'er Bethlehem's fields . 

Tet thou more bright than all the angel blaze. 

That harbingered thy birth, Thou, Man of Woes ! 

Despised Galilean ! For the great 

Invisible (by symbols only seen) 

With a pepuliar and surpassing light 

Shines from the visage of the oppressed good man. 

When heedless of himself the scourged Saint 

Honma for the oppressor. Fair the vernal mead. 

Fair the high grove, the sea, the sun, the stars ; 

True impress each of their creating Sire ! 

Tet nor high grove, nor many-colored mead, 

Nor the green Ocean with his thousand islea. 

Nor tke starred azure, nor the sovraji sun, 


E'er with such majesty of portraiture 

Imaged the supreme heauty uncreate, 

As thou, meek Saviour ! at the fearful hour 

Whea thy iusulted anguish winged the prayer 

Harped by Archangels, when they sing of mercy ! 

Which when the Almighty heard from forth his throne 

Diviner light filled Heaven with ecstasy ! 

Heaven's hymnings paused : and Hell her yawning montk 

Closed a brief moment. 

Lovely was the death 
Of Him whose life was Love I Holy with power 
He on the thought- benighted Skeptic beamed 
Manifest Godhead, melting into day 
What floating mists of dark idolatry 
Broke and misshaped the omnipresent Siro : 
And first by Fear uncharmed the drowsed Soul. 
Till of its nobler nature it *gan feel 
Dim recollections ; and thence soared to Hope, 
Strong to believe whatever of mystic good 
The Eternal dooms for his immortal sons. 
From HojKJ and firmer Faith to perfect Love 
Attracted and absorbed ; and centered there 
God only to behold, and know, and feel, 
Till bv exclusive consciousness of God 
All self-annihilated it shall make 
God its identity ; God all in all ! 
We and our Father one I . 

And blest are they, 
'V\'lio in this fleshly World, the elect of Heaven, 
Their strong eye darting through the deeds of men, 
Adore with steadfast unpresuming gaze 
Him Nature's essence, mind, and energy I 
And gazing, trembling, patiently ascend 
Treading beneath their feet all visible things 
As steps, that upward to their Father's throne 
Lead gradual— else nor glorified nor loved. 
They nor contempt embosom nor revenge : 
For they dare know of what may seem deform 
The Supreme Fair sole operant : in whose sight 


All things are pure, his strong conlrolling Love 
Alike fronk all educing perfect good. 
Their's loo celestial courage, inly armed — 
Dwarfing Earth's giant brood, what limo they muse 
On their great Father, great beyond compute I 
And marching ouwards view high o'er thuir huads 
His waving faaiiucrs of Unuiipoleiicc. 

Who the Crealor love, crcaleil might 

Dread not : within their tents nu terrora walk. 

For they are holy things before the Lord 

Aye unprofaiicd, though Earth should le.ngue with H< 

God's altar grasping with an eagi^i hand 

Fear, the wild-visaj^ed, pale, eye-slarting wretch, 

Sure-refuged hcais his hot pursuing liendtt 

Yell at vain diiilance. Soon relretlied from Heaven 

He calms the throh and tempest of his heart. 

His countenance settles ; a sofl solemn blisa 

Swims in biB eye — his swimming eye upraised ; 

And Faith's whole armor glitters on his limbs ! 

And thus iransSgured with a dreadless awe, 

A solemn hush of soul, meek he beholds 

All things of terrible seeming : yea, unmoved 

Views e'en the immitigable mintatera 

That shower down vengeance on these latter dayt. 

For kindling with intenser Deity 

From the celestial Mercy-seat they come, 

And at the renovating wells of Love . 

Have filled their vials with salutary wrath, 

To sickly Nature more medicinal 

Than what soft balm the weeping good man ponn 

Into the lone despoiled traveller's wounds ! 

Thus from the Elect, regenerate through failh. 
Pass the dark Passions and what thirsty Cares 
Drink up the Spirit, and the dim regards 
Self-centre. Lo they vanish 1 or acquire 
Kew names, new features — by supernal grace 
Enrobed with Light, and naturalized in Heaven 
' when a shepherd on a vernal morn 


Through some thick fog creeps timorous with slow totit^ 

Darkling he fixes on the immediate road 

His downward eye : all else of fairest kind 

Hid or deformed. But io ! the bursting Sun ! 

Touched by the enchantment of that sudden beam 

Straight the black vapor melteth, and in globes 

Of dewy glitter gems each plant and tree ; 

On every leaf, on every blade it hangs ! 

Dance glad the new-born intermingling rays. 

And wide around the landscape streams with gloij I 

There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind, 

Omnific. His most holy name is Love. 

Truth of subliming import ! with the which 

Who feeds and saturates his constant soul. 

He from his small particular orbit flies 

With blest outstarting ! From Himself he fliet 

Stands in the sun, aud with no partial gaze 

Views all creation ; aud he loves it all, 

And blesses it, and calls it very good ! 

This is indeed to dwell with the most High I 

Cherubs aud rapture-trembling Seraphim 

Can press no nearer to the Almighty's Throne. 

But that we roam unconscious, or with hearts 

Unfeeling of our universal Sire, 

And that in his vast family no Cain 

Injures uninjured (in her best-aimed blow 

Victorious murder a blind suicide) 

Haply for this some younger Angel now 

Looks down on human nature : and, behold ! 

A sea of blood bestrewed with wrecks, where mad 

Embattling interests on each other rush 

With unhelmed rage ! 

*Tis the sublime of man. 
Our noontide majesty, to know ourselves 
Parts and proportions of one wondrous whole I 
This fraternizes man, this constitutes 
3ur charities and bearings. But *tis God 
Diffused through all. that doth make all one whole : 


This the wont superatition, him except 
Alight to desire, Supreme Bealily ! 
The plenitude anil permaneace of bliss ! 

Fiends of Superatition ! not that oft 

The erring prieat hath stained with brother's blood 
Your grisly idols, not tor this may wrath 
Thunder against you from the Holy One ! 
But o'er some plain that steamelh to the sun. 
Peopled with death ; or where more hideous Trado 
Loud-langhing packs bis bales of human anguish ; 

1 will raise up a mourning, yo Fiends 1 

And curso your spells, that film the eye of Faith, 

Kiding the present Uod ! whose presence lost, 

The moral world's cohesion, we become 

An anarchy of Spirits ! Toy- bewitched, 

Made blind by lusts, disherited of soul, 

No common centre Man, no common sire 

Knoweth I A sordid solitary thing, 

Mid countless brethren with a lonely heart 

Through courts and cities the smooth savage roams 

Feeling himself, his own low eelf the whole ; 

When he by sacred sympathy might make 

The whole one self I self, that no alien knows ! 

Self, far dilTused as Fancy's wing can travel ! 

Self, spreading still! Oblivious of its own. 

Yet all of all possessing ! This is Faith ! 

This the Messiah's destined victory ! 

But first oBcnccs needs must come ! Even now* 

(Black Hell laughs horrible — to hear the scofl!) 

■ January Slat 11M, in tlie debate on tbe oddresa t« his Majeatj, on th« 
■p«ecb from the Throne, tlie Eiirl of Uulldrurd moved au lUDeiiiJineDt lo the 
tiUoving eS»A : — "That the House hoped hi« Majesty would seiie tbe i^nrlint 
opportimitj to TOOclude * peace with FrBuee," do. This motion wm op- 
posed by tbcDulte of Portkud, «lio"«H]Htdered tbe war to be merely groun' 
ded on on* prioeiple — the preservation of the Chtittinn Religion." Uay 
SOtb, 1794, the Duke of Bedford moved a number of rcoulutiaDS, vith a 
view to the establiahment of a peace with France. He was opposed (ammii; 
uthen) by Lord Abingdon in these reiiuirkubia vurds: "'llie best rwul 
to Peace, my Lords, is War I iin<l War carried on lu the name mnnuer iii 
vhiA we are taoght to worship our Creator, namely, with nil uur ma\\«, 
•i4 with all our miada, sod with all our hearts, and wiUi all <iuv »t,(«ti£V\C 


And dashed the beauteous tenors on the earth 
Smiling majestic. Snch a phalanx ne'er 
Measured firm paces to the calming sound 
Of Spartan Rute ! These ou the fated day, 
When, stung to rage by pity, eloquent men 
- Have roused with pealing voice the unnumbered tribes 
That toil and groan and bleed, hungry and blind, — 
These hushed awhile with patient eye serene 
Shall watch the mad careering of the storm ; 
Then o'er the wild and wavy chaos rush 
And tame the outrageous mass, with plastic might 
Moulding confusion to such perfect forms. 
As erst were wont, — bright visions of the day ! — 
To float before them, when, the summer noon, 
Beneath some areh'd romantic rock reclined 
They felt the sea breeze lift their youthful locks ; 
Or in the month of blossoms, at mild eve. 
Wandering with desultory feet inhaled 
The waited perfumes, and the flocks and woods 
And many-tinted streams and setting sun 
With ail his gorgeous company of clouds 
Ecstatic gazed 1 then homeward as they strayed 
Cast the sad eve to earth, and inlv mused 
Whv there was misery in a world so fair. 
Ah I far removed from all that glads the sense. 
From all that softens or ennobles Man, 
The wretched Many ! Bent beneath their loads 
They gape at pageant Power, nor recognize 
Their cots' transmuted plunder I From the tree 
Of Knowledge, ere the vernal sap had risen 
Rudely disbranched I Blest Society I 
Fitliest depictured by some sun-st*orched waste. 
Where oil majestic through the tainted noon 
The Simoom sails, before whose purple pomp 
Who falls not jirostrate dies I And where by night, 
Fast by each precious fountain on green herbs 
The lion couches ; or hyn*na dips 
Deep in the lucid 8tn\im his bliXHly jaws : 
Or serpent plants his vast moon-glittering bulk. 


Caught in whose mnnatrous twine Behemoth* yells, 
His bones loud-crashing ! 

yo numberless, 
Whom foul oppressJDii'H ruSian gluttony 
Drives from life's plenteous teast ! thou poor wretch 
Who nursed in darkness and made wild by want, 
Itoamcst for prey, yea thy unnatural hand 
Dost lilt to deeds of blood ! pale-eyed form, 
The victim of seduction, doomed to know 
Polluted nights and days of blasphemy ; 
Who in loathed orgies with lewd waseailers 
Must gaily laugh, while thy remembered home 
(rnaws liko a viper at thy secret heart ! 
aged women 1 ye who weekly catch 
The morsel tossed by law-forced charity, 
And die so slowly, that none call it murder '. 
loathly suppliants ! ye, that unreceived 
Totter heart-broken from the closing gates 
Of the full Lazar-house : or, gazing, »tand 
Sick with despair ! ye to glory's iicld 
Forced or ensnared, who, as ye gasp in death. 
Bleed with new wounds beneath the vulture's beak ! 
thou poor widow, who in dreams dost view 
Thy husband's mangled corse, and from short doze 
Start'st with a shriek ; or in thy half-thatched cot 
Waked by the wintry night-storm, wet and cold 
Oow'rst o'er thy screaming baby ! Rest awhile 
Children of wretchedness ! More groans must rise, 
Uore blood must stream, or ere your wrongs be full. 
Yet is the day of retribution nigh : 
The Lamb of God hath opened the fifth seal : 
And upward rush on swiftest wing of firs 
The innumerable multitude of Wrongs 
By man on man inflicted ! llest awhile. 
Children of wretchedni'ss 1 The hour is nigh ; 
And lo ! the great, the rich, the mighty Men, 

* Bebemodi, in Hcbfflw, aigniSes wild beasU in generuL Some belierc 
it is tba elcjrikaat, some the hippopatunug ; >ome affirm ic U the m\<iY>>A\ 
IVMtieUlj it daMgoates any hirgt quadruped 

so JUVfiUNlLK F0EH8. 

The Kings and the chief Captains of the Worid, 
With all that fixed on high like stars of Heaveu 
Shot baleful iiiiluence, shall be cast to earth, 
Vile and down-trodden, as the untimely fruit 
Shook from the fig-tree by a sudden storm. 
Even now the storm begins :* each gentle name. 
Faith and meek Piety, with fearful joy 
Tremble far-off — for lo I the giant Frenzy 
Uprooting empires with his whirlwind arm 
Mc»ckelh high Heaven ; burst hideous from the oell 
Where the old Hag, unconquerable, huge, 
Creation's eyeless drudge, black ruin, sits 
Nursing the impatient earthquake. 

return ! 
Pure Faith I meek Piety I The abhorred Form 
Whose scarlet robe was stiff with earthly pomp. 
Who drank iniquity in cups of gold, 
Whose names were many and all blasphemous. 
Hath met llie horrible judgment I Whence that cry ? 
The mighty army of foul Spirits shrieked 
Disherited of earth ! For she hath fallen 
On whose blark front was written Mystery ; 
She that reeled heavily, whoso wine was blood ; 
She that worked whoredom with the Demon Power, 
And from the dark embrace all evil things 
Brought forth and nurtured : mitred atheism ! 
And patient Folly who on bended knee 
Gives back the steel that stabbed him ; and pale Fear 
Haunted by ghastlier shapings than surround 
Moon-blasted Madness when he yells at midnight I 
Return pure Faith I return meek Piety ! 
The kingdoms of the world are yours : each heart 
Self-governed, the vast family of Love 
Haised from the common earth by common toil 
Enjoy the equal produce. Such delights 
As float to earth, permitted visitants! 
When in som? hour of solemn jubilee 
The massy gates of Paradise are thrown 

* Alluding to the French Revolution. 


Wide open, and forth come in frogmenta wild 
Sweet echoes of unearthly metodics, 
And odors snatched from beds of amaranth, 
And they, that from the crystal rivei of lite 
Spring up on freshened ving, ambrosial gales ! 
The favored good man in his lonely walk 
Perceives them, and his silent spirit drinks 
Strange bliss which he shall recognize in heaver. 
And such delights, such strange beatitudes 
Seize on my young anticipating heart 
When that blest future rushes on my view ! 
For in his own and in liia Father's might 
The Saviour comes ! While as the Thousand Year* 
Lead up their mystic dance, the Desert shouts ! 
Old Oceau claps his hands ! The mighty Dead 
Rise to new life, whoe'er from earliest lime 
With conscious zeal had urged Love's wondrous plan 
Coadjutors of God. To Milton's trump 
The high groves of the renovated Earth 
Unbosom their glad echoes ; inly hushed. 
Adoring Xewtou his serener eye 
Raises to heaven : and ho of mortal kind 
Wisest, he* first who marked the ideal tribes 
Up the fine fibres through the sentient brain. 
Iio ! Priestley there, patriot, and saint, and sags 
Him, full of years, from his loved native land 
Statesmen blood-stained and pricets idolatrous 
By dark lies maddening the blind multitude 
Tttoro with vain hate. Calm, pitying he retired. 
And mused expectant on these promised years. 
Years ! the blest pre'Cminencc of Saints ! 
Ye sweep athwart my gaze, so heavenly bright, 
The wings that veil the adoring Seraphs' eyes, 
What time they bend before the Jasper Tbronet 
Reflect no lovelier hues I Yet ye depart, 
And all beyond is darkness ! Heights most strange, 
• David Hartley. 

f It«v. dup iv. T. 2 snd S : — And immediately T was in Uie Spirit : and 
b^old. a Throne was set in HesveD and one tat □□ the TUrnnc &tv&^y* 
tt*t *«t wia to look tpon like a jmper «i(I a aiirdiae stone, &c 

Whence Fancy fkWsy flattering her idle wing. 
For who of \roman horn may paint the hour. 
When seized in his mid course, the San shall wane 
Making noon ghastly ! Who of woman horn 
May image in the workings of his thonght. 
How the black-visaged, red-eyed Fiend outstretched* 
Beneath the unsteady feet of Nature groans. 
In feverous slumbers — destined then to wake. 
When fiery whirlwinds thunder his dread name 
And Aiiofels shout, Destruction ! How his arm 
The last great Spirit lifting high in air 
Shall swear hy Him, the cTer-living One, 
Time is no more ! 

Believe thou, my soul, 
Life is a vision shadowy of Truth ; 
And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave. 
Shapes of a dream ! The veiling clouds retire, 
And lo I the Throne of the redeeming God 
Forth flashing unimaginable day 
Wraps in one blaze earth, heaven, and deepest hell. 

Contemplant Spirits I ye that hover o'er 

With iintircd gaze the immeasurable fount 

Ebullient with creative Deity ! 

And ye of plastic power, that interfused 

Roil through the grosser and material mass 

In organizing surge I Holies of God I 

(And what if Monads of the infinite mind) 

1 haply journeying my immortal course 

Shall sometime join your mystic choir. Till then 

I discipline my young and novice thought 

In ministeries of heart-stirring song, 

And aye on Meditation's heaven-ward wing 

Soaring aloll I breathe the empyreal air 

Of Love, omnific, omnipresent Love, 

Whoso day-spring rises glorious in my soul 

As the great Sun, when he his influence 

Sheds on the frost-bound waters — The glad stream 

Flows to the ray and warbles as it flows. 

* The fioal destruction impertooated. 




A.U3P1CIOUS Reverence I Hush all meaner Bong, 

Bre w« the deep preluding strain have poured 

To the great Father, only Rightlul King, 

Eternal Father ! King Oinnipolcnt I 

To the Will Abeolute, the One, the Good ! 

The I AM. the Word, the Life, the Living God ! 

Such symphony requires best instrument. 
Seize, then, my soul 1 from Freedom's trophied dome 
The harp which hangeth high between the phielda 
Of Brutus and Leonidas ! With that 
Kirong music, that soliciting spell, force back 
Man's free and stirring spirit that lies entranced. 

For what is freedom, but the unfettered use 
Of all the powers which God for use had given ? 
But chiefly thia, him first, him last to view 
Tiirough meaner powers and secondary things 
EfTulgeiit, as through clouds that veil his blaze. 
For all that meets the bodily sense I deem 
Symbolical, one mighty alphabet 
For infant minds ; and wo in this low world 
Placed with our backs to bright reality, 
That we may learn will) young tinwounded ken 
The substance from its shadow. Infinite iiove. 
Whose Intence is the plenitude of all. 
Thou with retracted beams, and self-eclip«e 
Veiling, revealeat thine eternal Sun. 

Bnt some there are who deem themselves most ftM 
When they within this gross and visible sphere 
Chain down the winged thought, scofling ascent. 
Proud in their meanness : and themselves they cheat 
With noisy emptiness of learned phrase. 
Their subtle fluids, impacts, essenoes, 
Self-working tools, uncaused effects, and all 
TboM blind omniscienis, those almighty slaves, 
Untonaating cmtion of its God. 


But properties are God : the naked mass 
(If mass there be, fantastic guess or ghost) 
Acts only by its inactivity. 
Here we pause humbly. Others boldlier think 
That as one body seems the aggregate 
Of atoms numberless, each organized ; 
So by a strange and dim similitude 
Infinite myriads of self-conscious minds 
Are one all-conscious Spirit, which informs 
With absolute ubiquity of thought 
(His one eternal self-affirming act !) 
AH his involved Monads, that yet seem 
With various province and apt agency 
Each to pursue its own self-centring end. 
Some nurse the infant diamond in the mine ; 
Some roll the genial juices through the oak ; 
Some drive the mutinous clouds to clash in air, 
And rushing on the storm with whirlwind speed, 
Yoke the red lightnings to their volleying car. 
Thus these pursue their never-var}'ing course. 
No eddy in their stream. Others, more wild, 
With complex interests weaving human fates, 
Duteous or proud, alike obedient all. 
Evolve the process of eternal good. 

And what if some rebellious o*er dark realms 
Arrogate power ? yet these train up to God, 
And on the rude eye, unconfirmed for day, 
Flash meteor-lights better than total gloom. 
As ere from Lieule-Oaive's vapory head 
The Laplander beholds the far-olVsun 
Dart his slant beam on uuobeying snows, 
VMiile yet the stem and solitary night 
Brooks no alternate sway, the Boreal Morn 
With mimic lustre substitutes its gleam. 
Guiding his course or by Nicmi lake 
Or Balda Zhiok,* or the mossy stone 
Of Solfar-kap|K»r,t while the snowy blast 

* Balda Zhiok ; i . t. nMO* altitmlinis, tho hif*he»t mountain in Lapland, 
f S(«lfar Kapixr ; capitiuni SoUar, hie locua oniniuDi quotquol v«t«rura 


Drills arrowy by, or eddies round hiB slsdge. 

Making the poor babe at its mother's back* 

Scream in its scanty cradle : he the while 

Wins gentlo soluce as with upward eye 

He marks the streamy banners of the North, 

Thinking himself those happy Bpirilx shall joia 

Who there in floatinfr robes of roty light 

Dance sportively. For Fancy is the power 

That first unscnsualizcs the dark mind. 

Giving it new delights ; and bids It swell 

With wild activity ; and peopling air, 

By obscure feare of beings invisible, 

Emancipates it from the grosser thrall 

Of the present impulse, teaching s«lf-controt, 

Till Superstition with unconscious hand 

Seat Heasoii on her throne. Wherefore not vain, 

Nor yet without permitted power impressed, 

1 deem those l^ends terrible, with which 

The polar ancient thrills his uncouth throng : 

Whether of pitying Spirits that make their moan 

O'er slaughtered inianls, or that giant bird 

Vuokho, of whose rushing wings the noise 

Is tempest, when the unuttorablet shape 

Speeds from the mother of Death, and utters onea 

That shriek, which never murderer heard, and lived. 

I^pponum ■uperalitio aacriSviia ri^liginsuquf ciiltui dedicavit, celcbrstUii 
nms erst, in parte liuiu Buatrulia filiw geiuimillLarii spatio a mnri distaiia 
IpM liiciu, quem curiuBitatis gmtia aliquniidii me inviiiue memiui. duabui 
prealtis lapidibiu, aibi invicem •ippiwicie. quuruin alter niusco cireuniilalui 
erat, cuostkhat. — Leeiniut de Lappouibun, 

* T)ie Lsplnod Tinmen carry their infaDts at their back in a piece i>f 
exokvated wocxl, vhich serves them for a cradle. Opposite to the indiut'i 
mouth there is a hole for it to breathe through. — Mirandum prorsus est et 
vii credibile Dili cuI vidiase iwnti};iC. Lappoaes hyeme iter (kcietites per 
riiitut moutes, perqiie hurrida et iovin tcaqua, eo presertini tempore quo 
irnaia perpetuis oivilius ubtecta sunt et uives vcatts agitantur et in gyrm 
•trunlur, viatn ad d(«tinnta Inca absque errors invenire posac, lactnDtem 
Holeni iuEsntem t\ quem habeat, ipaa mater io dorso bajulat, in excavato 
ligiio (Oieed'k ipai Toouit) qund pro cuuis utuntur : in hoc inbas panuis at 
pellibos ooovolutus colligatua jaceL -—Leetniui dt Zapponihvi, 

t Jaibma Aibmo. 


Or if the Greenland Wizard in Strang trance 
Pierces the untravelled realms of Ocean's bed 
Over the abvsin. even to that uttermost cave 


By mis-shaped prodiffies beleaguered, such 

As earth ue*er bred, nor air, nor the upper sea : 

AViiere dwells the Fur)' Form, whose unheard name 

With eager eye, pale cheek, suspended breath, 

And lips half-opening vrith the dread of sound. 

Unsleeping Silence guards, worn out with fear 

Lest haply 'scaping on some treacherous blast 

The fateful word let slip the elements 

And frenz\' Nature. Yet the wizard her, 

Armed with Torngarsuck's* power, the Spirit of Grood, 

Forces to unchain the foodfui progeny 

Of the Ocean stream ; — thence thro' the realm of Soul^ 

Where live the Innocent, as far from cares 

As from the storms and overwhelming waves 

That tumble on the surface of the Deep, 

Jteluriis with far-heard pant, hotly pursued 

By the fierce Warders of the Sea, once more. 

Ere by the frost foreclosed, to repossess 

His fleshly mansion, that had staid the while 

In the dark tent within a cow'ring group 

Untenanted. — Wild phantasies ! yet wise. 

On the victorious goodness of high God 

Teaching reliance, and medicinal hope. 

Till from Bethabra northward, heavenly Truth 

With gradual steps, winning her difficult way. 

Transfer their rude Faith perfected and pure. 

If there be beings of higher class than Man, 
I deem no nobler province they possess. 
Than by disposal of apt circumstance 

♦ Tbey cull the OiKul Spirit Turnj^nrsuck. The other great but malij? 
Dont spirit is a uiuiicleHH Fcinule ; nhe dwelU under the Ben in a great houtfe. 
where she enn detain in captivity nil the nniinaln of tlie ocean by her magic 
power. When n dearth Im*&i11b the Greenlanders, nn Anj^ekok or magieiaq 
nniBt undertake a journey tliither. He ])a8Mca throu^dt the kingdom of 
louU, over a horrible abyM into the Puhicc of tliis phantom, and by hia 
enchantments causes the captive creatures to ascend directly to the su? &oe 
of the ocean. — See Crantz'i Hittory of Oretnland^ vol. i. 206. 


Ti rear up kingdoms: and the doeds tliey prompt, 
r)isli[ipui»hing Irom mortal agency. 
They choose their human ministers from such stales 
As Btill the Epic Boug half fears to name, 
Bepelled from all the minetreleies that strike 
The palace-roof and soothe the monarch's pride. 

And such, perhaps, tlie Spirit, who (if words 
WilnesBed by answering deeds may claim our faith) 
HclU commune with that warrior-maid of Franco 
"VVlio scourged the Invader. From her infant days, 
With Wisdom, mother of retired thoughts. 
Her soul had dwelt ; and she was quick to mark 
The good and evil thing, in human lore 
Undisciplined. For lowly was her birth, 
And Heaven had doomed her early years to toil 
That pure from tyranny's least deed, herself 
Uufear'd by fellow-natures, she might wait 
On the poor laboring man with kiudly looks, 
And minister refreshment to the tired 
Way-wanderer, when along the rough hewn bench 
The sweltry man had stretched him, and aloft 
Vacantly watched the rudely pictured board 
Which on the mulberry-bough with welcome creak 
Swung to the pleasant breeze. Here, too. the Maid 
Learnt more than schools could teach : Man's shifling mir 
His vices and his sorrows ! And full oft 
At tales of cruel wrong and strange distress. 
Had wppt and shivered. To the tottering eld 
Klitl as a daughter would she run : she placed 
His cold limbs at the snnny door, and loved 
To hear him story, in hi« garrulous sort, 
Of his eventliil years, all come and gone. 

•Bo twenty seasons past. The Virgin's form, - 
Active and tall, ror sloth nor luxury 
Had shrunk or paled. Her front sublime and broad. 
Her Sexile eye- brows wildly haired and low, 
And her full eye, now bright, now unillumed, 
Bpkke more than Woman's thought ; and all \ier fa«o 


Was moulded to such features as declared 
That pity there had oft and strongly worked. 
And sometimes indignation. Bold her mien. 
And like a haughty huntress of the woods 
She moved : yet sure she was a gentle maid ! 
And in each motion her most innocent soul 
Beamed forth so brightly, that who saw would say 
Guilt was a thing impossible in her ! 
Nor idly would have said — for she had lived 
In this bad World, as in a place of tombs. 
And touched not the pollutions of the dead. 

'Twas the cold season when the rustic's eye 
From the drear desolate whiteness of his fields 
Rolls for relief to watch the skyey tints 
And clouds slow varying their huge imagery ; 
When now, as she was wont, the healthful Maid 
Had left her pallet ere one beam of day 
Slanted the fog-smoke. She went forth alone 
Urged by the indwelling angelguide, that oft, 
With dim inexplicable sympathies 
Disquieting the heart, shapes out Man's course 
To the ])redoomed adventure. Now the ascent 
She climbs of that steep upland, on whose top 
The Pilgrim-man, who long since eve had watched 
The alien shine of unconcerning stars. 
Shouts to himself, there first tlie Abbey-lights 
Seen in Neufchatel's vale ; now slopes adown 
The winding sheep-track vale-ward : when, behold 
In the first entrance of the level road 
An unattended team! The foremost horse 
Lay with stretched limbs ; the others, yet alive 
But stiff and cold, stood motionless, their manes 
Hoar with the frozen night dews. Dismally 
The dark-red dawn now glimmered ; but its gleams 
Disclosed no face of man. The maiden paused, 
Then hailed who might be near. No voice replied 
From the thwart wain at length there reached her ear 
A sound so feeble that it almost seemed 
Distant : and feebly, with slow effort pushed, 


A nii«erablo man crept forth : bis licnbe 
The silent fmt had eat, scalhing like lire. 
Faint on the shaAs he reBteil, Hhe, mean lime, 
Saw crowded close beneath the coverture 
A mother and her children — lifeless all, — 
Ynt lovely ! not a lineament was marred — 
Death had put on so slumber-like a form! 
It was a piteous sight ; and one, a babe. 
The crisp milk :rozen on its innocent lips, 
Lay on the woman's orm, its little hand 
•Stretched on her bosom 

Mutely questioning, 
The Maid gazed wildly at the living wretch. 
He, his head feebly turning, on the group 
LiKiked with a vacant stare, and his eye spoke 
The drowsy calm that slealg on worn-out anguish. 
She shuddered ; but, each vainer pang subdued, 
Q,uick disentangling from the foremost horse 
The rustic bands, with difficulty and toil 
The stifl* cramped team forced homeward. There arr'net 
A'lxiously tends him she with healing herbs, 
A. id weeps and prays — but the numb power of Death 
Spreads o'er his limbs ; and ere the noontide hour, 
The hovering spirile of his wife and babes 
Hail him immortal I Yet amid his pangs, 
With interruptions long from ghastly throes, 
His voice had liiltered out this simple tale- 

The village, where he dwelt a husbandman. 
By sudden inroad had been seized and tired 
ijite on the yester-evening. With his wife 
And little ones he hurried his escape. 
They saw the neighboring hamlets flame, they heard 
Uproar and shrieks! and terror-struck drove on 
Through unfrequented roads a weary way ! 
But saw nor house nor cottage. All had quenched 
Their evening hearth-fire : for the alarm had spread. 
The air clipped keen, the night was fangcd with ("vast. 
And they provisionlesa .' The weeping wife 


Ill hushed her children's moans ; and still they moaiied, 

Till fright and cold and hunger drank their lite. 

They closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew 'twas death. 

Ho only, lashing his o'er- weaned team, 

Gained a sad respite, till heside the base 

Of the high hill his foremost horse dropped dead. 

Then hopeless, strengthless, sick for lack of food, 

He crept beneath the coverture, entranced, 

Till wakened by the maiden. — Such his tale. 

Ah ! suflering to the height of what was sufiered 
Stung with too keen a sympathy, the Maid 
Brooded with moving lips, mute, startful, dark! 
And now her flushed tumultuous features shot 
Such strange vivacity, as fires the eye 
Of misery iancy- crazed ! and now once more 
Naked, and void, and fixed, and all within 
The unquiet silence of confused thought 
And shapeless feelings. For a mighty hand 
Was strong upon her, till in the heat of soul 
To the high hill-top tracing back her steps, 
Aside ihe beacon, up whose smouldered stones 
The tender ivy-trails crept thinly, there, 
Unconscious of the driving element. 
Yea, swallowed up in the ominous dream, she sate 
Ghastly as broad-eyed Slumber I a dim anguish 
Breathed from her look ! and still A\ath pant and sob, 
Inlv she toiPd to fiec, and still subdued. 
Felt an inevitable Presence near. 

Thus as she toiled in troublous ecstasy, 
A horror of great darkness wrapt her round. 
And a voice uttered forth unearthly tones. 
Calming her soul, — '* Thou of the Most High 
Cho.^en, whom all the perfected in Heaven 
Behold expectant 

[The following frogincntd were iateuded to form part of the poem when 

*' Maid beloved of Heaven I 

(To her the tutelary Power exclaimed) 


Ci' Chaos the adventurous progeny 

Thou seest ; foul missiouariea of fbul sire, 

Fiorce to legain the losses of that hour 

When Love rose glittering, and his gorpcoiiji wings 

Over the abj'ss fluttered with such glud iiuise, 

As what time afler long and peatful calms, 

With slimy shapes and miscreated life 

Poisoning the vast Pacific, the fresh breeze 

Wakens the merchant-Bail uprising. Night 

A heavy unimaginable moan 

Scot forth, when she the Protoplast beheld 

Stand beauteous on confusion's charmed wave. 

Moaning sbe Red, and entered the Profound 

That leads with downward windings to tbe cave 

Of darkness palpable, desert of Death 

Suuk deep beneath Gehenna's massy roots. 

There many a dateless ago the beldam lurked 

And trembled ; till engendered by fierce Hate, 

Fierce Hale and gloomy Hope, a Dream arose, 

Shaped like a black cloud marked with streaks of flio. 

It roused the Hell-Hag : she the dew damp wiped 

From ofl'her brow, and through the uncouth maze 

Retraced her stcpe ; but ere she reached the mouth 

or that drear labyrinth, shuddering she paused. 

Nor dared re-enter the diminished Gulf 

As through the dark vaults of some mouldered tower 

(Which, fearful to approach, the evening hind 

Circles at distance in his homeward way) 

The winds breathe hollow, deemed the plaining groan 

Of prisoned spirits ; with such fearful voice 

Night murmured, and the sound thro' Chaos went. 

Leaped at her call her hideous-fronted brood ! 

A dark behest. they heard, and rushed on earth ; 

Since that sad hour, in camps and courts adored, 

Bebets from God, and tyrants o'er Mankind I" 

From his obscure haunt 
Sbrieked Fear, of Cruelty the ghastly dam, 
Fararoiu yet freezing, ea^er-paced yet slow. 


As she that creeps from forth her swampy reeds, 
Ague, the hi form hag ! when early Spring 
Beams on the marsh-bred vapors. 

" Even so (the exulting Maiden said) 
The sainted heralds of good tidings fell. 
And thus they witnessed God ! But now the cloudi 
Treading, and storms beneath their feet, they soar 
Higher, and higher soar, and soaring sing 
Loud songs of triumph ! ye spirits of God, 
Hover around my mortal agonies !'* 
She spake, and instantly faint melody 
Melts on her ear, soothing and sad, and slow. 
Such measures, as at calmest midnight heard 
By aged hermit in his holy dream. 
Foretell and solace death ; and now they rise 
Louder, as when with harp and mingled voice 
The white-robed* multitude of slaughtered saints 
At Heaveu*8 wide-opened portals gratulant 
Receive some martyr'd patriot. The harmony 
Entranced the Maid, till each suspended sense 
Brief slumber seized, and coulhsed ecstasy. 

At length awakening slow, she gazed around : 
And through a mist, the relique of that trance 
Still thinning as she gazed, an Isle appeared. 
Its high, o*er-hanging, white, broad-breasted clifls, 
Glassed on the subject ocean. A vast plain 
Stretched opposite, where ever and anon 
The plough-man following sad his meagre team 
Turned up fresh skulls unstarllcd, and the bones 
Of fierce hate-breathing combatants, who there 
All mingled lay beneath the common earth, 
Death's gloomy reconcilement ! O'er the fields 

♦ Revelati »nd, vi. 9. 11. And when he had opened the fifth teal, I saw 
under the altar the souls of thoin that were slain fur the word of God, and 
for the t<'*tiinony which they held. And white robes were given untu 
every one uf them, and it wxis said unto them, tliat they should rest yet ftir 
a little season, until their fellow-servants also and tl eir brelhrvn, that 
khould be killed as they were, should be fulfilled 


Slept a fmir Form, repairing all she might, 
Her temples olive- wreathed ; and where she trod, 
Fresh flowerets rose, and maiiy a foodful herb. 
But wan her cheek, her footslepB insecure, 
And auKious pleasure beamed in her fuint eye. 
As she had newly left a couch of pain, 
Pale convalescent ! (yet some time to rule 
With power excluEive o'er the willing world. 
That bleat prophetic mandate then fulfilled — 
Peace be on Earth !) A happy while, but brief, 
She seemed to wander with aeetduous feet, 
And healed the recent harm of chill and blight, 
And nursed each plant that fair and virtuous grew. 

But Boon a deep precureive sound moaned hollow ; 
Black ro»! the clouds, and now (as in a dream) 
Their reddening shapes, transformed to warrior- hosts, 
Coursed o'er the sky, and battled in mid-air. 
Nor did not the targe blood-drops fall from heaven 
Portentous '. while aloft were seen to float. 
Like hideous features booming on the mist. 
Wan stains of ominous light ! Resigned, yet sad. 
The fair Form bowed her olive-crowned brow, 
Then o'er the plain with oft reverted eye 
Fled till a place of tombs she reached, aud there 
Within a ruined sepulchre obscure 
Found hiding-place. 

The delegated Maid 
tiazed through hor tears, then in sad tones exclaimed ; — 
" Thou mild-eyed Form 1 wherefore, ah I wherefore fled ? 
The power of Justice lik a name all light, 
Shone from thy brow ; but all they, who unblamed 
Dwelt in thy dwellings, call thee Happiness. 
Ah ! why, uninjured and unprofited. 
Should multitudes against their brethren rush ? 
Why sow they guilt, still reaping misery ? 
Lenient of care, thy songs, Peace I are sweet, 
As uSiev showers the perfumed gale of eve. 
That flings the cool drops on a feverous cheek ; 
And g»y thy gransy alUr piled witli fntiU. 


But boasts the shrine of demon War one charm. 

Save that with many an orgie strange and foul. 

Dancing around with interwoven arms, 

The maniac Suicide and giant Murder 

Exult in their fierce union I I am sad, 

And know not why the simple peasants crowd 

Beneath the Chieftains' standard !" Thus the Maid 

To her the tutelary Spirit said : 
*' When luxury and lust's exhausted stores 
No more can rouse the appetites of kings ; 
When the low flattery of their reptile lords 
Falls flat and heavy on the accustomed ear ; 
When eunuchs sing, and fools bufibonery make. 
And dancers writhe their harlot-limbs in vain ; 
Then War and all its dread vicissitudes 
Pleasingly agitate their stagnant hearts ; 
Its hopes, its fears, its victories, its defeats, 
Insipid royalty's keen condiment I 
Therefore uninjured and un profited, 
(Vicliins at once and executioners) 
The congregated husbandmen lay waste 
The vineyard and the harvest. As along 
The Bothnic coast, or southward of the Line, 
Though hushed the winds and cloudless the high nooD, 
Yet if Leviathan, weary of ease. 
In sports unwieldy toss his island-bulk, 
Ocean behind him billows, and before 
A storm of waves breaks ioaniv on the strand. 
And lience, for times and seasons bloody and dark. 
Short Peace shall skin the wounds of causeless War, 
And War, his strained sinews knit anew, 
Still violate the untinished works of Peace 
But vonder Iwk I for more demands thv view I"' 
He said : and straightway from the op^xisite Isle 
A vapor sailetl. as when a cloud, exhaletl 
Fn^n Egypt's fields that steam hot pestilence. 
TravoU the skv for nianv a trackless leasrue. 
Til! o*er smne death-dtxnned land, distant in vain. 
It bnt««ils inruniU*nt. Forthwiih fnuii the plain. 


Facing the Isle, a brighter cloud arose, 

And steered its couree which way the vapor went 

The Maiden paused, musing what this might [nt!,ia. 
But long lime passed not, ere th&t brighter cloud 
Kctiirued more bright ; along the plain it swept , 
Aud soon from forth its bursting sides emerged 
A dazzlinfr form, broad-bosomed, bold of eye, 
And wild her hair, save where with laurels bound. 
14'ot more majestic stood the healing God, 
When from bis bow the arrow sped that slew 
Huge Python. Shriek'd Ambition's giant throng. 
And with them hissed the locust-tiendB that crawled 
And glittered in Corruption's slimy track. 
Great was their wrath, for short they knew their reign , 
And such commotion made they, and uproar,' 
As when the mad tornado bellows through 
The guilty islands of the western main, 
Whut time departing from their native shores, 
Eboe, or 'Koromantyn's plain of palms, 

* The SUvm in tbe Wftt Indies oonsiiler ilenth u s passport to tbMr 
untive Nuntrj. This seatiment ia thua cipresaed in tbe iatroduetJoo to 
A Greek Priiis-Ode on the SUve-Trailc, uf whieli the tUuuglila are better 
than the language in which they are eoaveyeiL 

'O OKOTOt} iniAai Qiivart, irpoSiti-Truii 

'Ef jivDi (Tirnidoit (jrofru^flh' 'Arf 

Oil {eviuAJmj yrvvuv awapay/uiic, 
Oii- bi^'Aiyiuf, 

'AUd Koi kvkTlouji ;(opoiriijrDioi, 

K'uo/uinjv Jtnpp' ^odipb^ iitv iool 

^Tvyvt Tvpapvt t 
iaanioi; iirl urtpiyeaei oj/ui 
'At 'Baiaaatov taSnpiivrec oi'Iua 
A.t6ip(mXayKT0ic vird iroaa" ilveiai 

l\aTpiff (jf ulo)'. 
'EvAi /iHv '£paaai 'Bpupev^iv 
'A/i^ mtyyaii' mrpiwov iir' ilAoww, 
"Ood' iiird lipoToli liradov ffporol, tA 

LMving Um gates of darkii«M. O Deatli 1 Imsttii thou to a tm« ^oV*^ 


The infuriate spirits of the murdered make 
Fierce merriment, and vengeanoe ask of Heaven. 
Warmed with new influencei the unwholesome pi 
Sent up its foulest fogs to meet the morn : 
The Sun that rose on Freedom, rose in blood. ! 

*' Maiden beloved, and Delegate of Heaven ! 
(To her the tutelary Spirit said) 
Soon shall the morning struggle into day. 
The stormy morning uito cloudless noon. 
Much hast thou seen, nor all canst understand — 
But this be thy best omen — Save thy Country I" 
Thus saying, from the answering Maid he passed, 
And with him disappeared the heavenly Vision. 

"Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven 1 
All conscious presence of the Universe I 
Nature's vast ever-acting energy I 
In will, in deed, impulse of All to All I 
Whether thy L#ove with unrefractcd ray 
Beam on the Prophet's purged eye, or if 
Diseasing realms the enthusiast, wild of thought, 
Sc*atler new frenzies on the infected throng. 
Thou both inspiriUjff and predooming both. 
Fit instruments and best, of perfect end : 
Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven I" 

And first a landscape rose 
More wild and waste and desolate than where 
The white bear, drifting on a field of ice. 
Howls to her sundered cubs with piteous rage 
And savage agony. 

with misery I Thou wilt not bo received with biceratioos of cheeks, nor 
with funeral ululation — but with circling dunces and the joy of song^ 
Thou art terrible indeed, yet thou dweUest with Liberty, etern Genius! 
Borne on thy dark pini«>ns over the swelling of Ocean, they return to their 
native country. ITiere, by the sitie of fountains beneath citron-groves, the 
lovers tell to their beloved what horrors, being men, they bad endured 
frum loeo. 


GoitD, if Btorying LegeDds tell aright. 

Once framed a rich Elixir of Delight. 

A Chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd, 

And in it necUr and ambrosia mii'd : 

With these the magic dewa, which Evening brings, 

Brush'd from the Idalian Star by faery wings : 

Each tender pledge of sacred Faith he joined, 

Each gentler pleasure of th' unspotted mind — 

Day-dreams, whose tints with sportivo brightness glow. 

And Hope, the blameless PaFasito of Woe. 

The eyeless Chemist heard tlio process riie. 

The steamy Chalice bubbled up in sighs ; 

Sweet sounds transpired, as when th' enamored Dova 

Pouni the soft murm'rings of responsive love. 

The finished work might Envy vainly blame, 

And " Kisses" was the precious compound's namo ; 

With half the tiod his Cyprian Uolher blest. 

And breathed on Sara's lovelier lips the rest. 

Sister of love-lorn poets, Philomel ! 
How many bardu in cily garret pent, 
While at their window they with downward eye 
Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennetl'd mud, 
And listen to the drowsy cry of watchmen, 
Those hoarse, unfeathered nightingales of lime I 
How many wretched bards address thy name, 
And her's, the full-orbed queen, that shines abova. 
But I do bear thee, and the high bough mark, 
Within wboM mild moon-mellowed foliage hid. 
Thou vrarblest sad thy pity-pleading strains. 
0, I have listened, till my working soul, 
Waked by those strains to thousand fantasies. 
Absorbed, hath ceased to listen 1 Therefore oft 
I hymn thy name ; and with a proud delight 
(»l will 1 t«ll thee, minstrel of the moon, 
VOL. va. B 


*' Most musical, most melancholy*' bird ! 

That all thy soil diversities of tone, 

Though sweeter far than the delicious airs 

That vibrate from a white-armed lady's harp. 

What time the languishment of lonely love 

Melts iu her eye, and heaves her breast of snow. 

Are not so sweet, as is the voice of her. 

My Sara — best beloved of human kind ! 

When breathing the pure soul of tenderness. 

She thrills me with the husband's promised name ! 



Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme 

Elaborate and swelling ; — yet the heart 

Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers 

I ask not now, my friend ! the aiding verso 

Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought 

Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know) 

From business wandering far and local cdres, 

Thou creepest round a dear-loved sister's bed 

With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look, 

Siwthing each pang with fond solicitude, 

And lenderest tones medicinal of love. 

I, too, a sister had, an only sister — 

•She loved nie dearly, and 1 doted on her ; 

To her I poured forth all my puny sorrows, 

(As a sick patient in a nurse's arms,) 

And of the heart those hidden maladies 

That e'en from friendship's eye will shrink ashamed. 

! I have waked at midnight, and have wept 

Because she was not I — Cheerily, dear Charles ! 

Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year ; 

Such warm presages feel 1 of high hope ! 

For not uninterested the dear maid 

I've viewd — her soul aflectionate yet wise, 

Her polished wit as mild as lambent glories 

That play around a sainted infant's head. 

He knows, (the Spirit that in secret sees, 


or whose omnitcieDt and atl-Rpreading love 
Aught to imploTO were impotence of mind !)* 
That my mute thoughtg arc sad before hii throne, — 
Prepared, when He his heiding rays voucheafeE, 
ThankBgiving to pour forth with lilled heart, 
And praise him gracious with a brother's joy ! 



Ii ire except LucretiuB and Statiim, I knov do Latin Poet, ancient or 
modera, wbo has equalled Casimir in boldoew of eonceptioo, opulence of 
bocy, or beauty of Teraification. llie Odea of thi« illustrioiu Jeauit vera 
translated into Eogliih about 160 years ago. by a Q. Uila, I tbinkf I never 
■aw the translation. A fuw of the Odea hava been translated Uk a very 
■ninutad manner by Watts. 1 hare Eubjoiaed the third Odo of the Second 
Book, irhicb, irith the exception of the first line, is an effusion of exquisite 
elegance. In the imitation attempted, 1 am sensible that I have deati'Oyed 
the efiect of suddenness, by translating into two staniua what is one in the 


SoKORa buxi filia sutilis, 
Pendehia alta, harhite, populo, 
Dum ridet aer, et supiuas 

Sollicitat levis aura frondes. 

Te aibilantia lenior halitus 
Perflabit Buri : me juvet interim 
Cotlnm rechnassc, et virenti 
Sic tcmeret jat-uisBe ripa. 

* " I utterly reeant the reeant the sentiment contained in the ha«« 
Of whose omniscient and all-sprending love 
Anght to implort were impotpno! of mind, — 
it being written in Scripture, Att, and it ghall be given to yoa I and niy 
human reason being omtvineed, moreover, of the propriety of offeriii;; 
prtilirm* as well as thanksgiTings to Deity. 8. T. C, 1T97. 

I He Odes of Caumir, translated by O. H. (O. Uils.) I»ndou, \M&. 
151O0. K N. C. 
\ Uad Casimir any batter authority for this quantity than IWlulIian'i 

Immenior ilia Dei temere committere tale~- 1 
la the dasaiG poet*, the last sjllable is, 1 believe, un formly cut nil. Y\.'¥l .C 


Ehen ! sereniiin qiue nebuls tegnnt 
Bepeate ocelQin ! quis sonus iinbrium ! 
Surgamus — heu semper fogaoi 
Gaudia pnBtentara passu. 


The solemn-breathing air is ended — 
Cease, Lyre ! thy kindred lay ! 

From the poplar branch suspended. 
Glitter to the eye of day ! 

On thy wires, hovering, dying, 
Softly sighs the summer wind ; 

I will slumber, careless lying, 
By you waterfall reclined. 

In the forest, hollow-roaring. 

Hark ! I hear a deepening sound — 

Clouds rise thick with heavy lowering ! 
See ! the horizon blackens round ! 

Parent of the soothing measure, 
Let me seize thy wetted string ! 

Swiftly flies the flatterer, Pleasure, 
Headlong, ever on the wiiig ! 


{Composed during Jllnen and. in Absence.) 

Dim Hour ! that sleep'st on pillowed clouds afar, 
rise, and yoke the turtles to thy car ! 
Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering dove. 
And give me to the bosom of my Love I 
My gentle love ! caressing and carest, ^ 
With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest ; 
Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes, 
Lull with fond woe, and med'cine me with sighs ; 
While finely-flushing float her kisses meek. 
Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid che«k 


Chitl'd b) iho night, the drooping rose of May 
MouniE the long ab«ence of the lovely Day : 
Young Day, returning at her promised hour, 
Weeps o'er the sorrows of the fav'rite flower, — 
Weeps the sofl dew, the balmy gale she sighs. 
And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes. 
Kew life and joy th' expanding flow'ret feels : 
His pitying mistrew mourns, and mourning heals ! 


Hoarse Mffivius reads his hobbling vene 

To all, and at all times ; 
And finds them both divinely smooth. 

His voice as well as rhymes. 

Yet folks say — " Mravius is no ass ;" 

But MfBviua makes it dear. 
That he's a monster of an ass — 

An am without an ear. 


This day among the faithful placed. 
And fed with fontal manna, 

with maternal title graced — 
Dear Anna's dearest Anna I — 

While others with thee wise and fair, 

A maid of spotless fame, 
I'll breathe this more compendious prayer— 

May'st thou deserve thy name ! 

Thy mother's name — a potent spell. 

That bids the virtues hie 
From mystic grove and living cell 

ConfeM'd to lancy's eye — 



Meek quietness without ofienoe ; 

Content in homespun kirtle ; 
True love ; and true love's innocenofi. 

White blossom of the myrtle ! 


Associates of thy name, sweet child ! 

These virtues mayst thou win ; 
With face as eloquently mild, 

To say, they lodge within. 


So, when her tale of days all flown. 

Thy mother shall be mist here ; 
When Heaven at length shall claim its owa 

And angels snatch their sister ; 


Some hoary-headed friend, perchance, 

May gaze with stifled breath ; 
And oft, 111 momentary trance, 

Forget the waste of death. 


E'en thus a lovely rose I view'd. 

In summer-swelling pride ; 
Nor mark'd the bud that, green and rudc^ 

Peep'd at the rose's side. 


It chanced, I pass'd again that way, 

In autumn's latest hour, 
And wond'ring saw the selfsame spray 

Rich with the selfsame flower. 


Ah, fond deceit ! the rude green bud, 

Alike in shape, place, name, 

Had bloom'd, where bloom'd its parent stud. 

Another and the same ! 




Good verse inoit good, and had Ttrra tbea wciiu better 

Ji«c«iT«<l from absent friend by yra-y of Letter, 

For whut so Bweet cm labored lnj impart 

As one rude rbyme warm from a frjeadly heart I — Anon. 

Nor travels my meandering eye 
The starry witderncss on high ; 

Nor now with cnrious sight 
I mark the glow-worm as I paw, 
More with " green radiance" through the gnm, 

An emerald of light. 

ever present to my view ! 
My wafted spirit is with you, 

And soothes your boding fears : 

1 lee you all oppressed with gloom 
Sit lonely in that cheerless room — 

Ah me ! You are in tears! 

Beloved Woman ! did you fly 

Chilled Frf^dship's dark disliking eye. 

Or Mirth's untimely dia? - 

"With cruel weight these trifles press 
A temper Bore with tenderness. 

When aches the Void within. 

But why with sable wand unblest 
Should Fancy rouse within my breast 

Dim-visaged shapes of Dread ? 
Untenanting ila beauteous clay 
Uy Sara's soul has winged its way, 

And hovers round my head 1 

I felt it prompt the tender dream, 
When slowly sank the day's last gleam ; 

You roused each gentler sense. 
As sighing o'er the blossom's bloom 
Meek evening wakes its soft perfume 

With viewless influence. 


And hark, my Love ! The sea-breeze moans 
Through yoa ref^ house ! 0*er rolling stones 

In bold ambitious sweep, 
The onward-surging tide supply 
The silence of the cloudless sky 

With mimic thunders deep. 

Dark reddening from the channelled Isle* 
(Where stands one solitary pile 

Unstated by the blast) 
The watch-fire, like a sullen star, 
Twinkles to many a dozing tar 

Bude cradled on the mast. 

Even there — ^beneath that light-house tower- 
In the tumultuous evil hour 

Ere Peace with Sara came. 
Time was, I should have thought it sweet 
To count the echoings of my feet, 

And watch the storm- vexed flame. 

And there in black soul-jaundiced fit 
A sad gloom-pampered Man to sit, 

And listen to the roar : 
When mountain surges bellowing deep 
With an uncouth monster leap 

Plunged foaming on the shore. 

Then by the lightning's blaze to mark 
Some toiling tempest-shattered bark ; 

Her vain-distress guns hear ; 
And when a second sheet of light 
Flash'd o'er the blackness of the night — 

To see no vessel there I 

But Fancy now more gaily sings ; 
Or if a while she droop her wings 

* The Holmes, in the Bristol ChanneL 


As sky-larks 'mid the corn, 
On summer ficldii she grounds her breast : 
The oblirioug poppy o'er her nest 

Nods, till returning morn. 

O mark those smiling tears, that swell 
The opened rose ! From heaven they fell, 

And with the sun-beam blend. 
Blest visitations from above. 
Such are the tender woes of Love 

Fostering the heart they bend ! 

"When stormy Midnight howling round 
Beats on our roof with clattering sound. 

To me your arms you'll stretch : 
Great God ! you'll say — To ua so kind, 

shelter from this loud bleak wind 
The houseless, friendless wretch ! 

The tears that tremble dowit your cheek 
Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek 

In Pity's dew divine ; 
And from your heart the sighs that steal 
Shalt make your rising bosom feel 

The answering swell of mine ! 

How oft. my Love I with shapings sweet 1 

1 paint the moment we shall meet '. 

With eager speed 1 dart — 
I seize you in the vacant air, 
And fancy, with a husband's care 

I press you to my heart ! 

'Tis said, in Summer's evening hour 
Flashes the goldeti-colored flower 

A fair electric flame : 
And so shall flash my love-charged eye. 
When all the heart's big ecstasy 

Bhoobi rapid through the frame 1 



Whkn I haye bom« in memory what has tamed 

Great Datioos, how emiobliog thoughts depart 

When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 

The student's bower for gold, some fears nnnamud 

I had, my country I Am I to be blamed 1 

But, when I think of Thee, and wliat thou art^ 

Verily, in the bottom of my heart. 

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 

But dearly must we prize thee ; we who find 

In thee a bulwark of the cause of men ; 

And I by my affection was beguiled 

What wonder if a poet, now and then. 

Among the many movements of his mind. 

Felt for thee as a Lover or a Child 


loC lot), a & KOKli. 

^rpoCcij rapdaauv ^polfiiot^ f^ij/dot^t 

To /UXimi ^(tt, Koi ao fi' Iv Tuxti TOp&v 
'Ajav y il^i/So/iavTiv olxTeipa; ipei(. 

jEiehyl Agam. ISiS. 

Thk Ode «omiii«ic«B wiLh an iddreu to the Divine Providence, that r<8 
nlatei into ooe vwt liAraioD; all the eventa of time, hovever e&lamiton* 
■DiDfl of theu maj sppenr to mortals. The eeccmd Strophe calli oa men to 
■uapnid their privBLe Joja and sorroiTB, and devote them for b while to the 
eaiue of hitman natnre in geoeral. The first Epode ipe«b of the Emprew 
of BoMia, who died of an apoplexj on ths 11th of Norember, 11911 ; hav- 
iag joat ooDcluded a luhudiarj treatj nith the Kinga oomldned againit 
Fraoea. Hie Srat and aeeond Antistrophe desoriba the Image of the De- 
parting Year, &«■ aa in a viuon. The leeond Epode propheaies, in RDguiah 
of ipirit, the dotni&Il of thia eountry. 

Spirit who iweepest the wild harp of Time ! 

It is most hard, with an untroubled car 

Thy dark inwoven harmonics to hear ! 
Yet, mine eye fixed on Heaven's unchanging ctime, 
Ijong had I listened, free from mortal fear. 

With inward stillnesa, and a bowed mind ; 

When lo ! its ibldn far waving on the wind, 
I saw the train of the departing Year ' 

Starting from my silent sadness 

Then with no unholy madness 
Ere yet the entered cloud foreclosed my sight, 
I raised the impetuous song, and solemnized his flight. 

>a eompoaed on the S4th, sath, and 2Bth daja of Deccmbec 
le laat day of that year. 



Hither, from the recent tomb, 

From the prison's direr gloom, 
From distemper's midnight anguish ; 
And thence, where poverty doth waste and languiah ! 
Or where, his two bright torches blending, 

Love illumines manhood's maze ; 
Or where o'er cradled infants bending 
Hope has fixed her wishful gaze ; 

Hither, in perplexed dance. 
Ye Woes I ye young-eyed Joys I advance I 

By Time's wild harp, and by the hand 

Whose indefatigable sweep 

Raises its fateful strings from sleep, 
I bid you haste, a mixed tumultuous band ! 

From every private bower, 
And each domestic hearth. 

Haste for one solemn hour ; 

And with a loud and yet a louder voice. 
O'er Nature struggling in portentous birth. 

Weep and rejoice I 
Slill echoes the dread name that o'er the earth 
Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of Hell : 

And now advance in saintly jubilee 
Justice and Truth ! They too have heard thy spell, 

They too obey thy name, divinest Liberty I 


I marked Ambition in his war-array ! 

I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry — 
" Ah I wherefore does the Northern Conqueress stay I 
Groans not her chariot on its onward way ?" 
Fly, mailed Monarch, fly I 

Stunned by Death's twice mortal mace. 

No more on murder's lurid face 
The insatiate hag shall gloat with drunken eye ! 

Manes of the unnumbered slain ! 

Ye that gasped on Warsaw's plain ! 


To that erst at Lunail's tower, 
When hnman ruin choked the Btreanu. 

Fell in conquest's glutted hour. 
Mid women's shrieks and infants' ECTeams ! 

Spirits of the uncofBncd slain. 

Sudden blasts of triumph swelling, 

on, at night, in misty train. 

Hush around her narrow dwelling ! 

The exterminating fiend is fled — 

(Foul her life, and dark her doom) 
Mighty armies of the dead 

Dance, like death-fires, round her tomb I 
Then with the prophetic song relate, 
Each some tyrant- murderer's fate 1 

Departing Year I 'twas on no earthly shore 

My soul beheld thy vision I Where alone, 

Voicelees and stem, before the cloudy throne, 
Aye Memory sits : thy robe inscribed with gore, 
With many an unimaginablo groan 

Thou Btoried'st thy sad hours ! Silence ensued. 

Deep silence o'er the ethereal multitude. 

Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with glories shone. 

Then, bis eye wild ardors glancing, 

From the choired gods advancing, 

The Spirit of the Earth made reverence meet, 

And stood np, beautiful, before the cloudy sent. 

Throughout the blissful throng, 

Hushed were harp and song : 
Till wheeling round the throne the Larapads sevon, 

(The mystic Words of Heaven) 

Permissive signal make : 
The fervent Spirit bowed, then spread hi( wings and spake '. 
" Thou in stormy blackness throning 

Love and uncreated Light, 
By the Earth's unsolaced groaning. 

Seize thy terron. Arm of might! 


By peace with profiered insult scaled, 
Masked hate and envying scorn ! 
By years of havoc yet unborn ! 
And hunger's bosom to the frost-winds bared ! 
But chief by Afric's wrongs, 
Strange, horrible, and foul ! 
Bj what deep guilt belongs 
To the deaf Synod, * full of gifls and lies !' 
By wealth's insensate laugh ! by torture's howl ! 
Avenger, rise ! 
Forever shall the thankless Island scowl, 
Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow ? 
Speak ! from thy storm-black Heaven speak aloud 1 

And on the darkling foe 
Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain cloud ! 

dart the flash I rise and deal the blow ! 
The Past to thee, to thee the Future cries I 

Hark I how wide Nature joins her groans below ! 
Rise, God of Nature ! rise." 


The voice had ceased, the vision fled ; 
Yet still I gasped and reeled with dread. 
And ever; when the dream of niirht 
Renews the pliantom to my sijrht. 
Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs ; 

Mv ears throb hot ; mv eye-balls start : 
My brain with horrid tumult swims : 

Wild is the tcmjHJst of my heart • 
And my thick and struggling breath 
Imitates the toil of death ! 
No stranger agony confounds 

The soldier on the war-field spread. 
When all foredone with toil and wounds. 

Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead ! 
(The strife is o*er, the daylight fled. 

And the night-wind clamors hoarse ! 
See ! the starting wretches head 

Lies pillowed on a brother^ corse I) 


Ifot yet enBlaved, not wholly vile, 
O Albion ! my mother Isle ! 
Thy valleys, fair aa Eden's bowers. 
Glitter green with sunny showers ; 
Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells 

Echo to the blest of flocks ; 
(Those grassy hills, those glittering dells 

Proudly ramparted with rocks) 
And Ocean raid his uproar wild 
Speaks safety to his island-cbild, 

Hence for many a fearless age 

Has social Q,uict loved thy shore ; 
Nor ever proud invader's rage 
Or sacked thy toweis, or stained thy fields with goro. 

Abandoned of Heaven ! mad avarice thy guide. 
At cowardly distance, yet kindling with pride — 
Hid thy herds and thy com-flelds secure thou hast stood 
And joined the wild yelling of famine and blood ! 
The nations curse thee [ They with eager wondering 

Shall hear Destruction, like a vulture, scream '. 

Slrange-eyed Destruction ! who with many a dream 
Of central fires through nether seas upthundering 

Soothes her fierce solitude ; yet as she lies 
By livid fount, or red volcanic stream. 

If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes, 

Albion ! thy predestined ruins rise, 
The fiend-bag on her perilous couch doth leap. 
Muttering distempered triumph in her charmed steep. 

Away, my soul, away ! 
In vain, in vain the birds of warning sing— 
And hark ! I hear the famished brood of prey 
Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind ! 
Away, my sonl, away '. 
■ I nnpartaking of the evij thing, 


With daily prayer and daily toil 
Soliciting for food my scanty soil, 
Have wailed ray country with a loud Lament. 
Now I recentre my immortal mind 

In the deep sahbath of meek self-content ; 
Cleansed from the vaporous passions that bedim 
God's Image, sister of the Seraphim. 



Ye Clouds ! that far above me float and pause. 

Whose pathless march no mortal may control ! 

Ye Ocean-Waves ! that, wheresoe*er ye roll. 
Yield homage oifly to eternal laws ! 
Ye Woods ! that listen to the night-birds singing, 

Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined, 
Save when your own imperious branches swinging. 

Have made a solemn music of the wnnd ! 
Where, like a man beloved of God, 
Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 

How oft, pursuing fancies holy, 
My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound. 

Inspired, beyond the guess of folly, 
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound ! 
ye loud Waves I and ye Forests high I 

And ye Clouds that far above me soared ! 
Thou rising Sun ! thou blue rejoicing Sky I 

Yea ever}- thing that is and will be free ! 

Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be. 

With what deep worship I have still adored 
The spirit of divinest Liberty. 


When France in uTath her giant-limbs upreared, 

And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea, 
Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free. 

Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared I 

With what a joy my lofty gratulation 
Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band : 


All'] when to whelm the diBenchnnled nation, 

Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, 
The MonarchB marched in evil day, 
And Britain joined the dire ftrra]' ; 

Though dear her shores and circling ocean, 
Though many friendHhips, many youthful loves 

Had HwoU'n the patriot emotion 
And dung a magic Lght o'er all her hills and grovei ; 
Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat 

To all that braved the tyrant-quelHng lance, 
And shame loo long delayed and vain retreat ! 
For ne'er, Liberty ! with partial aim 
I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy Jlame ; 

But blessed the pffians of delivered France, 
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. 

"And what," I said, " though Blasphemy's loud Kreain 

With that sweet music of deJiverancs strove ! 

Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove , 
A dftnce more wild tbaa e'er was maniac's dream I ' 

Y<9 storms, that round the dawning east assembled. 
The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light'." 

And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled. 
The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright ; 

When France her front dcep-scarr'd and gory 

nonnealed with clustering wreaths of glory ; 
When, insupportably advancing. 

Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp ; 
While timid looks of fury glancing. 

Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp. 
Writhed like a wounded diagon in his gore ; 

Theot I reproached my fears that would not flee ; 
"And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her lore 
la the low huts of them that toil and groan ! 
And, conquering by her happiness alone, 

&'aall France compel the nations to be free, 
Till Love anrl Joy look round, and call the Earth their own " 



Forgive me, Freedom ! forgive those dreams ! 

I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, 

From bleak Helvetia's icy cavern sent — 
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams ! 

Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished, 
And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows 

With bleeding -wounds ; forgive me, that I cherishea 
One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes ! 

To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt. 

Where Peace her jealous home had built ; 
A patriot-race to disinherit 
Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear ; 

And with inexpiable spirit 
To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer — 
O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind. 

And patriot only in pernicious toils. 
Arc these thy boasts, Champion of human kind ? 

To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway. 
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey : 
To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils 

From freemen torn ; to tempt and to betray ? 


The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 
Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game 
Thev burst their manacles and wear the name 


Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain • 
Liberty ! with profitless endeavor 
Have I pursued thee, many a wear\' hour ; 

But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever 
Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. 
Alike from all, howe*er they praise thee, 
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) 

Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, 
And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves, 
Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions. 
The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves ' 
And there I felt thee !^on that sea-clifTs verge, 
Whose pines, scar*?e travelled by the breeze above. 


H&d made one murmur with the distant surge * 
Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare. 
And shot my being through earth, sea and air. 
Possessing all things with intensest love, 
O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 
Fcfruary, 1197. 



A GKEEN and silent spot, amid the hilts, 
A small and silent dell ! O'er stilleT place 
No singing sky-lark ever poised himself. 
The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope. 
Which hath a gay Emd gorgeous covering on, 
All golden with the nevor-blooralcss furze. 
Which now blooms most profusely : but the dell. 
Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate 
As venial cornfield, or the unripe flax. 
When, through its half- trans parent stalks, at eve 
The level sunshine glimmers with green light. 
Oh I 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook ! 
Which all, methinks, would love ; but chiefly he 
The humble man, who, In his youthful years. 
Knew just so much of folly, as bad made 
His early manhood more securely wise '. 
Here he might lie on fern or withered heath, 
While from the singing-lark (that sings uns«en 
The minstrelsy that solitude loves best.) 
And from the sun, and from the breezy air, 
Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame ; 
And he, with many feelings, many thoughts, 
Made np a meditative joy, and found 
Religious meanings in the forms of nature '. 
And so, his senses gradually wrapt 
In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds. 
And dreaming hears thee still, singing-lark; 
That aingeat like an angel in the clouds ' 


My God ! it is a melancholy thing 
For such a man, \Krho would full tain presenro 
His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel 
For all his human brethren — my God ! 
It weighs upon the heart, that he must think 
What uproar and what strife may now he stirring 
This way or that way o'er these silent hills- 
Invasion, and the thunder and the shout. 
And all the crash of onset ; fear and rage, 
And undetermined conflict— even now, 
Even now, perchance, and in his native isle : 
Carnage and groans beneath this blessed suu ! 
We have ofieuded. Oh ! my countrymen ! 
We have offended very grievously, 
And been most tyrannous. From east to west 
A groan of accusation pierces Heaven ! 
The wretched plead against us ; multitudes 
Countless and vehement, the sons of Gwl, 
Our brethren ! Like a cloud that travels on. 
Steamed up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence 
Even so, my countrymen I have we gone forth 
And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs, 
And, deadlier far. our vices, whose deep taint 
With slow perdition murders the whole man. 
His body and his soul ! Meanwhile, at home. 
All individual dignity and power 
Ingulfed in courts, committees, institutions. 
Associations and societies, 

A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting guild, 
One benefit-club for mutual flattery, 
We have drunk up, demure as at a grace, 
Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth ; 
Contemptuous of all honorable rule, 
Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life 
For gold, as at a market I The sweet words 
Of Christian promise, words that even yet 
Might stem destruction, were they wisely prenched. 
Are muttered o*er by men, whose tones proclaim 
How flat and wearisome they feel their trade : 
Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent 


To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth. 
Oh! blasphemonal the book of life is made 
A supeTstitioua ioetruineat, on which 
yfe gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break ; 
For all must swear — all and in every place, 
College and wharf, council and justice-court ; 
All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed. 
Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest, 
The rich, the poor, the old man and the young; 
All, all make up one scheme of peijuiy, 
That faith doth reel ; the very name of God 
Sounds like a juggler's charm ; and, bold with joy. 
Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place, 
(Portentous sight I) the owlet Atheism. 
Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon, 
Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close, 
And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven, 
Cries out, " Where is it 7" 

Thankless too for peace, 
(Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous sea*) 
Secure from actual warfare, we have loved 
To swell the war-whoop, passionate fur war ! 
Alas ! for ages ignorant of all 
lis ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague, 
Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry- snows,) 
We, this whole people, have been clamorous 
For war and bloodshed ; animating sporls. 
The which we pay for as a thing to talk of, 
Spectators and not combatants ! Xo guess 
Anticipate of a wrong unfell, 
No speculation or contingency, 
However dim and vague, too vague and dim 
To yield a justifying cause ; and forth, 
(Stufied out with big preamble, holy names. 
And adjurations of the God in Heaven,) 
We send our mandates lor the certain death 
Of thousands and ten thousands! Boys and girls. 
And women, that would groan to see a cliild 
Pull ofl' an insect's leg, all read of war. 


The best amusement for our morning-meal ! 

Tiie poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayui 

From curses, who kuows scarcely words enough 

To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father, 

Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute 

And technical in victories and defeats, 

And all our dainty terms for fratricide ; 

Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongu 

Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which 

We join no feeling and attach no form ! 

As if the soldier died without a wound ; 

As if the fibres of this godlike frame 

Were gored without a pang ; as if the n^retch, 

Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds. 

Passed ofi' to Heaven, translated and hot killed ; 

As though he had no wife to pine for him, 

No God to judge him ! Therefore, evil days 

Are coming on us, my countrymen ! 

And what if all-avenging Providence, 

Strong and retributive, should make us know 

The meaning of our words, force us to feel 

The desolation and the agony 

Of our fierce doings ! 

Spare us yet awhile. 
Father and God I ! spare us yet awhile ! 
Oh ! let not the English women drag their flight 
Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes. 
Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday 
Laughed at the breast ! Sons, brothers, husbands, aU 
V\&ho ever gazed with fondness on the forms 
Which grew up with you round the same fire-side. 
And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells 
Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves puie 1 
Stand forth ! be men I repel an impious foe. 
Impious and false, a light yet cruel race, 
Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth 
With deeds of murder ; and still promising 
Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free. 
Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart 



Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothea 
And all that llfU the spirit ! Stand we forth ; 
Render thein back upon the iaaulted ocean. 
And let them toag aa idly on its waves 
As the Tile Bea-weed which some mountain blast 
Swept from our shores I And oh I may we return 
Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear, 
Repenting of the wrongs with which wo stung 
So fierce a foe to frenzy 1 

I have told, 
Britons ! my brethren 1 I have told 
Most hitler truth, bnt without bitlerness. 
Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistiraeit ; 
For never can true courage dwell with them, 
Who, playi[ig tricks with conscience, dare not look 
At their own vices. We have been too long 
Dupes of a deep delusion ! Some, belike. 
Groaning with restless enmity, expect 
All change from change of constituted power ; 
As if a Government had been a robe. 
On which our vice and wretchedness were lagged 
Iiike fancy-points and fringes, with the robe 
Pulled off at pleasure. Foudly these attach 
A radical causation to a few 
Vooi drudges of chastising' Providence, 
Who borrow all their hues and qualities 
From our own folly and rank wickedness, 
Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, meanwhile, 
Dota with a mad idolatry ; and all 
Who will not fall before their images, 
And j-icld them worship, they arc enemies 
'Bveii of their country ! 

Such have I been deemed — 
Bnt, O dear BriUin ! my Mother Isle ! 
Needs must tbou prove a name most dear and holy 
To roe, » son, a t»other, and a friend, 
A hnibuid, and a father ! who revere 
All bond* of natural love, and find them all 
■m» TO F 


Within the limits of thy rocky shores. 

native Britain ! my Mother Isle ! 

How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy 

To me, who from thy lakes and mountain hills. 

Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, 

Have drunk in all my intellectual life, 

All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts. 

All adoration of the God in nature. 

All lovely and all honorable things, 

Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel 

The joy and greatness of its future being ? 

There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul 

Unborrowed from my country. O divine 

And beauteous island ! thou hast been my sole 

And most magnificent temple, in the which 

1 walk with awe, and sing my stately songs, 
Lfoving the (xod that made me ! 

May my fears, 
My filial fears, be vain ! and may the vaunts 
And menace of the vengeful enemy 
Pass like the gust, that roared and died way 
In the distant tree : which heard, and only heard 
In this low dell, bowed not the delicate grass. 

But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad 
The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze : 
The light has lefl the summit of the hill. 
Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful. 
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell, 
Farewell, awhile, soft and silent spot I 
On the green sheep- track, up the heathy hill. 
Homeward I wind my way ; and lo ! recalled 
From bodings that have well nigh wearied me 
I find myself upon the brow, and pause 
Startled ! And afler lonely sojourning 
In such a quiet and surrounded nook, 
This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main. 
Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty 
Of that huge amphitheatre of rich 


And elmy fieliie, seems like society — 

Convening with the mind, and giving it 

A liveher impulse and a dance of thought ! 

And now, beloved Stowey ! I behold 

Thy church-tower, and, methinks, fbe four huge ehni 

Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend ; 

And close behind them, hidden from my view, 

Is my own lowly cottage, where niy babe 

And my babe's mother dwell in peace ! With light 

And quickened footsteps thitherward I tend. 

Remembering thee, green and silent dell ! 

And grateful, that by nature's quietness 

And solitary musings, all my heart 

la softened, and made worthy to indulge 

Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind. 

Hether Stowey, 1 
AprU iStb, iiaa. f 



n« BctHe a detolaled IVact in La Vtndit. Faudik tj duannrtd Ipng et 
tke ground; to Arr min- Fui and Suuchtek. 

Fam. Sisters ! sistere ! who sent you here ? 

Slaa. [to Firei] I will whisper it in her ear 

Fire. No! no! no! 
Spirits hear what spirits tell ; 
'Twill make a holiday in Hell. 

No ! no 1 no ! 
Myself, I named him once below, 
And all the sonls that damned be, 
Leaped up at once in anarchy, 
Clapped their hands and danced for glee. 
They no longer heeded me ; 
But laughed to hear Hell's burning rafter* 
Unwillingly re-echo laughters ! 
No! no! no! 

* Priot«doapi^:!lT. 


Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
Twill make a holiday in Hell ! 

Fam. Whisper it, sister ! so and so ! 
In a dark hint, soil and slow. 

Slau. Letters four do form his name — 
And who sent you ? 

Both. The same ! the same I 

Slau. He came by stealth and unlocked my den. 
And I have drunk the blood since then 
Of thrice three hundred thousand men. 

Both. Who bade you do it ? 

Slau. The same ! the same ! 

Letters four do form his name. 
He let me loose, and cried Halloo ! 
To him alone the praise is due. 

Fam. Thanks, sister, thanks ! the men have bled, 
Their wives and their children faint for bread. 
I stood in a swampy field of battle ; 
With bones and skulls I made a rattle. 
To frighten the wolf and carrion-crow 
And the homeless dog — but they would not go, 
So off I flew ; for how could I bear 
To see them gorge their dainty fare ? 
I heard a groan and a peevish squall, 
And through the chink of a cottage-wall — 
Han you guess what I saw there ? 

Both. Whisper it, sister I in our ear. 

Fam. A baby beat its dying mother : 
I had starved the one and was starving the other I 
Both. Who bade you do't ? 
Fam. The same ! the same ! 

Letters four do form his name. 
He let me loose, and cried Halloo I 
To him alone the praise is due. 

Fire. Sisters ! I from Ireland came I 
Hedge and corn-fields all on flame, 
I triumphed o'er the setting sun ! 
And all the while the work was done, 
On as I strode with my huge strides, 
I flung back my head and I held my sides. 


It wag 80 rare a piece of Tud i - 

To see the sweltcrml cattle run •;,= ,.^ ■ 

Witli uncouth gallop ihcough the night, 

ScAred by the red and noisy light ! 

By the light of his own blazing cot 

'Was many a naked rebel shot : 

The house-Btream met the flame and higsad. 

While CTash I fell in the roof, I wist, 

On some of those old bed-rid nurses, 

That deal in discontent and curses. 

Both. Who bade you do't ? 

Fire. The same ! the same ! 

Iietters four do form his name. 
He let me loose, and cried Halloo ! 
To him alone the praise is duo. 

All. He let us loose, and cried Halloo ! 
How shall w-B yield him honor due ? 

Fam. Wisdom comes with lack of food. 
I'll gnaw, I'll gnaw the multitude, 
Till the cup of rage o'erbrim : 
They shall seize him and his hrood — 

Slan. They shall tear him limb from limb ' 

Fire. thankless beldames and untrua ! 
And is this all that you can do 
For him, who did so much for you ? 
Kinely months he, by my troth 1 
Hath richly catered for you both ; 
And in an hour would you repay 
An eight years' work? — A^vay 1 awsy ! 
I olone am faithful I I 
Cling to him everlastingly. 



Quns humilis tenero stylus olim effudit in sbto, 

PerU^s hie lacrymas, ct quod phAretratus acuta 

Ille puer puero fecit mihi cuspide vuIdus. 

Omnia paulatim coDSumit lougior letas, 

Viveudoque simul morimur, rapimurque manenda 

Ipse mihi ooUatus euim non ille yidebor: 

Frons alia est, moresque alii, nova mentis, imago, 

Voxque aliud sonat — 

Pectore nunc gelido calidos miseremur amantea. 

Jamque arsisse pudet Veteres tranquilla tumultus 

Mens horret, rel^ensque alium putat ista locutum. 



All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour, 
When midway on the mount I lay. 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve I 

She leanM against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listened to my lay, 
Amid the lingering light. 


And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserahle Knight ! 

And that unknowing what he did, 
He leaped amid a murderous band, 
And saved from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Land ; — 

And how she wept, and clasped his knees ; 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; — 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away« 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ; — 

His dying words — ^but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
31 \ fiilteriag voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity 1 

All impulses of soid and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherished long ! 

She wept with pity and delight, 
She blushed with love, and virgin shame; 
And like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved — she stepped aside. 
As c-onscious of my look she stept — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
She fled to me and wept. 


She half incloeed mo with her iimu, 
She pressed me with a meek embraca , 
And bending back hei head, looked up, 
And gazed upon mj face. 

'Twaa partly love and partly fear. 
And partly 'twas a bashful art, 
That I might rather feel, than see, 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And BO I won my Genevieve. 
My bright and beauteous Bride. 


LEAVE the lily on its stem ; 

leave the rose upon the spray , 
leave the elder-bloom, fair maids ! 

And listea to my lay, 

A cypress and a myrtle-bough 
This morn around my harp you twined. 
Because it fashioned mournfully 
Itsi '■■ '• 

And now a tale of love and woe, 
A woful talo of love I sing ; 
Hark, gentle maidens I hark, it sighs 
And trembles on the string. 

But most, my own dear Genevieve, 
It sighs and trembles most for thee I 
come and hear the viael wrongs. 
Befell the Dark Ladie !• 

* Here fullared tlie ■tiniuB, nrterwards publiahed lepai-atelj uuiler lh« 
title "LoTt," (aee this toL p. ISS,) nad alter tbem came tie uther Ihres 
itsnttT prioted above ; the whole rwining the iDtroduct[na to the iateoded 
Oai^ Lftdie, of which all that ezieta ia tc be foniid on next page Latt KL 


And now once more, a tale of woe» 
A woful tale of love I nng ; 
For thee, my Genevieve, it-sigfas, 
And trembles on the string. 

\Vhen last I sang the cruel scorn. 
That crazed this bold and lovely knight. 
And how he roamed the roountain-woodsi 
Nor rested day or night ; 

I promised thee a sister tale, 
Of man's perfidious cruelty ; 
Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong 
Befell the Dark Ladie. 



Beneath yon birch vrhh. silver bark 
And boughs so pendulous and fair, 
The brook falls scattered down the rock : 
And all is moss\' there ! 

And there upon the moss she sits, 
The Dark Ladic in silent pain ; 
The heavy tear is in her eye ; 
And drops and swells again. 

Three times she sends her little page 
Up to the castled raountain*s breast, 
If he might find the Knight that wean 
The Grifiin for his crest. 

The sun was sloping dowL tne sky. 
And she had lingered there all day. 
Counting moments, dreaming fears — 
wherefore can he stay ? 

She hears a rustling o'er the brook, 
She sees far off a swinging bough ! 


" 'Tia He ! 'Tia my betrothed Knigfat ! 
Lord Falkland, it ie Thou !" 

bho springs, she clasps him Toimd the neck, 
She Bobs a thousand hopes and fears, 
Her kisses glowing oa hU cheeks 

She quenches with her tears. 
* • * * * 

" My friends with rude ungentle worda 
They scoff and bid me fly to tbee I 

give me shelter In thy breast ! 

shield tuid shelter me ! 

"My Henry, I have given thee much, 

1 gave what I can ne'er recall, 

I gave my heart, I gave my peace, 
Heaven I I gave thee all '." 

The Knight made answer to the Maid, 
While to his heart he held her hand, 
" Nine castles hath my noble sire. 
None stateUer in the land. 

" The fairest one eball be my love's. 
The fairest castle of the nine ! 
Wait only till the stars peep out. 
The fairest shall be thine : 

" Wait only till the hand ot eve 
Hath wholly closed yon western bars. 
And through the dark we two will steal 
Beneath the twinkling stars !" — 

" The dark ? the dark ? No ! not the dark ? 
The twinkling stars ? How, Henry ? How ? 
God ! 'twas in the eye of noon 
He pledged his sacred vow ! 

" And in the eye of noon, my love, 
Shall lead me from my mother's door 
8weet boys and girls all clothed in whila 
Strewing flow'rs before : 



But first the nodding minstrels go 
With music meet for lordly bow'n. 
The children next in snow-white Tests, 
Strewing huds and flow'rs ! 

'* And then my love and I shall pace, 
My jet-black hair in pearly braids, 
Between our comely bachelors 
And blushing bridal maids.*' 

• * * # 



At midnight by the stream I roved. 
To forget the form I loved. 
Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 

The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam 

And the shadow of a star 
Heaved upon Tamaha's stream ; 

But the rock shone brighter far, 
The rock half sheltered from my view 
By pendent bouglis of tressy yew — 
So shines my Lewti's forehead fair, 
Gleaming through her sable hair. 
Image of Lewti I from my mind 
Depart ; for LeA^-ti is not kind. 
I saw a cloud of palest hue, 

Onward to the moon it passed ; 
Still brighter and more bright it grew, 
AVith floating colors not a few, 

Till it reached the moon at last : 
Then the cloud was wholly bright, 
AVith a rich and amber light ! 
And so with many a hope I seek, 

And with sach joy I find my Lewti ; 
And eten so my pale wan cheek 

Drtiiks in as deep a flush of beauty ! 


Nay, beacheroiu image ! leave my miod, 
ir Lewti never will be kind. 

The little cloud — it iloaU away, 

Away it goes ; away so soun ? 
Alas ! it has no power to stay ; 
Ita hues are dim, its hues are giay-^ 

Away it passes from the moon t 
How mourn fully it seems to fly. 

Ever fading mora and more, 
To joyless regions of tbe eky — 

And now 'tis whiter than before ! 
As white as my poor cheek will be. 

When, Lewti ! on my couch I He, 
A dying man fur love of thee. 
Nay, treacherouB image ! leave my mind — 
And yet, thou did'st not look unkind. 

I saw a vapor in the eky. 

Thin, and white, and very high ; 
I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud : 

Perhaps the breezes that can fly 

Now below and now above, 
}lave snatched aloil tbe lawny shroud 

Of Lady fair — that died for love. 
For maids, as well as youths, have perished 
From fruitless love too fondly cherished. 
Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — 
For IrtWti never will be kind. 

Hush ! my heedless feet from under 

Slip the crumbling banks forever : 
Like echoes to a distant thunder. 

They plunge into the gentle river. 
The river-swans have heard my tread. 
And startle from their rccdy bed, 
beauteous birds ! methiuks ye measure 

Your movementB to pome heavenly luno I 
beauteous birds I 'tis such a pleasure 

To see you move beneath the moon. 


I would it were your true delight 
Fo sleep by day and wake all night. 

1 know the place where Lewti lie«, 
When silent night has closed her eyei : 

It is a breezy jasmine-bower, 
The nightingale sings o'er her head : 

Voice of the night ! had I the power 
That leafy labjrrinth to thread, 
And creep, like thee, with soundless tread, 
I then might view her bosom white 
Heaving lovely to my eight, 
As these two swans together heave 
On the gently swelling wave. 

Oh ! that she saw me in a dream. 
And dreamt that I had died for care ; 

All pale and wasted I would seem, 
Yet fair withal, as spirits are ! 

I'd die indeed, if I might see 

Her bosom heave, and heave for me ! 

Soothe, gentle image I soothe my mind I 

io-morrow Lewti may be kind. 



Olt THE lover's resolution. 

Tiioouiiii weeds and thorns, and matted underwood 
I force my way ; now climb, and now descend 
O'er rooks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot 
Crushing the purple whorts ; while ofl unseen, 
Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves, 
The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil 
I know not, ask not whither ! A new joy, 
Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust, 
And gladsome as the first-bom of the spring, 
Beckons me on, or follows from behind. 
Playmate, or guide ! The master-passion quelled, 
I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark 


The fit trees, and the anfrequent slendor oak. 
Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake 
Soar up, and form a melancholy vault 
High o'ei me, murmuring like a distant sea. 

Here Wisdom might resort, and here RemorM ; 
Here loo the love-lorn man, who, sick in soul. 
And of this biuy human heart aweary. 
Worships the spirit of unconscious life 
In tree or wild-flower. — Gentle lunatic 1 
If so he might not wholly cease to be, 
He would far rather not be that, he is ; 
But would be something, that he knows not of. 
In wiud« or waters, oi among the rocks ! 

But hence, fond wretch ! breathe not contagion here, 
No myrtle-walks are these : these are no groves 
Where Love dare loiter! If in sullen mood 
He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore 
His dainty feet, the brier and the thorn 
Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird 
Easily caught, ensnare him, ye Nymphs, 
Ye Oreads chaste, yo dusky Dryades ! 
And you, ye Earth-winds ! you that make at mom 
The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' weba I 
You, ye wingless Airs ! that creep between 
The rigid stems of heath and bitten furae. 
Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon, 
The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed — 
Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp, 
Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb. 
Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and ellin Gnomes ! 
With prickles sharper than his darts bemock 
His little Godsbip, making him perforce 
Creep through a thom-bush on yon hedgehog's back. 

This is my hour of triumph ! I can now 
With my own fan lies play tho merry fool, 
And laugh away worte folly, being free. 
Here will I seat myself, beside this old 


Hollow, and ireedy oak, which ivy-twine 
Clotnes as with net- work : here will I couch my 
Close by this river, in this silent shade, 
As safe and sacred from the step of man 
As an invisible world — unheard, unseen, 
And listening only to the pebbly brook 
That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound ; 
Or to the bees, that in the neighboring trunk 
Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits Die 
"Was never Love's accomplice, never raised 
The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow, 
And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek ; 
Ne'er played the wanton — never half disclosed. 
The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence 
Eye poisons for some love-distempered youth. 
Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-grove 
Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart 
Shall flow away like a dissolving thing. 

Sweet breeze I thou only, if I guess aright, 
Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast. 
That swells its little breast, so full of song. 
Singing above me, on the mountain-ash. 
And thou too, desert stream I no pool of thine. 
Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve, 
Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe. 
The face, the form divine, the downcast look 
Contemplative I Behold I her open palm 
Presses her cheek and brow I her elbow rests 
On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree. 
That leans towards its mirror I W'ho erewhile 
Had from her countenance turned, or looked by stealth 
(For fear is true love's cruel nurse), he now 
With steadfast gaze and unoflending eye. 
Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes 
Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain, 
E'en as that phantom- world on which he gazed, 
But not unheeded gazed : for see, ah ! see. 
The sportive t}Tant with her left hand plucks 
The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow, 


Lychnis, tnd willow-herb, and fox<glove belU : 
And Buddenty, as one that toys with time, 
Scatleis them on the pool I Then all the charm 
Is brokea — all that pb&D torn- world so fair 
Vaaishea, and a thousand ciiclets spread, 
And rach mis-shape the other. Stay awhile, 
Poor youth, who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes. 
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 
The visions will return ! And lo ! he stays : 
And soon the fragments dim of lovely formB 
Come trembling back, uoite, and n>w once more 
The pool becomes a mirror ; and behold 
Bach wild-flower on tbe marge inverted there, 
And there the hair-uprootcd tree — but where, 
where the virgin's snowy arm, that leaned 
On its bare branch ? He turns, and she is gone ! 
Homeward she steals through many a woodland mase 
Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth ! 
Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime 
In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook. 
Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou 
Behold'st her shadow still abiding there. 
The Naiad of the mirror 1 

Not to thee, 

wild and desert stream ! belongs this tale . 
Gloomy and dark art thou — the crowded firs 
Spire from thy shores, and stretch acrosa thy bed, 
Making thee doleful as a cavern-well : 

Save when the shy king-flshera build their nest 

On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream ! 

This be my chosen haunt — emancipate 
From passion's dreams, a freeman, and alon«, 

1 rise and trace its devious course. lead, 
Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms. 
Lo ! stealing IhrDugh the canopy of firs. 
How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock, 
Isle of the river, whose disparted waves 

Dart offosander with an angry sound. 


How Boon to re-unite I And see ! tbey meet. 

Each in the other lost and found : and see 

Place] ess, as spirits, one soft water-sun 

Throbbing within them, heart at ouoe and eye ! 

With its soil neighborhood of fikny clouds. 

The stains and shadings of forgotten tears, 

Dimness o'erswum with lustre ! Such the hour 

Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds ; 

And hark, the noise of a near waterfall ! 

I pass forth into light — I find myself 

Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful 

Of forest-trees, the lady of the woods). 

Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock 

That overbrows the cataract. How bursts 

The landscape on my sight ! Two crescent hills 

Fold in behind each other, and so make 

A circular vale, and land-locked, as might seem, 

With brook and bridge, and gray-stone cottages, 

Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet, 

The whortle-berries are bedewed with spray, 

Dashed upwards by the furious waterfall. 

How solemnly the pendent ivy-mass 

Swings in its winnow ; all the air is calm. 

The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with light, 

Eises in columns ; from this house alone, 

Close by the waterfall, the column slants, 

And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this ? 

That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke, 

And close beside its porch a sleeping child, 

His dear head pillowed on a sleeping dog — 

One arm between its fore-legs, and the hand 

Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers, 

Unfilletted, and of unequal lengths. 

A curious picture, with a master's haste 

Sketched on a strip of pinky-silver skin, 

Peeled from the birched bark ! Divinest maid ! 

Yon bark her canvass, and those purple berries 

Her pencil ! See, the juice is scarcely dried 

On the fine skin ! She has been newly here ; 

And lo ! yon patch of heath has bean her couch — 


The pressure still remains ! blessed couch 1 

For this mayst thou flower early, and the sun, 

Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long 

Upon thy purple bells ! Isabel ! 

Daughter of genius ! stateliest of our maids ! 

More beautiful than whom Alcseus wooed 

The Lesbian woman of immortal song ! 

child of genius ! stately, beautiful. 

And full of love to all, save only me, 

And not ungentle e'en to me ! My heart, 

"Why beats it thus ? Through yonder coppice-wood 

Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway 

On to her father's house. She is alone ! 

The night draws on — such ways are hard to hit — 

And fit it is I should restore this sketch, 

Dropt unawares no doubt. Why should I yearn 

To keep the relique ? 'twill but idly feed 

The passion that consumes me. Let me haste ' 

The picture in my hand which she has left : 

She can not blame me that I followed her 1 

And I may be her guide the long wood through. 



Sandoval You loved the daughter of Don Manrique? 

JEarl Henry. Loved ? 

Sandoval. Did you not say you wooed her ? 

Earl Henry, Once I loved 

Her whom I dared not woo ! 

Sandoval, And wooed, perchance. 

One whom you loved not ! 

Earl Henry. Oh I I were most base, 

Not loving Oropeza. True, I wooed her, 
Hoping to heal a deeper wound ; but she 
Met my advances with impassioned pride. 
That kindled love with love. And when her sire, 
Who in his dream of hope already grasped 
The golden circlet in his hand, rejected 


My suit with insuit, and in memory 

or ancient feuds poured curses on my head. 

Her blessings overtook and baffled them ! 

But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance 
Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me. 

Sandoval. Anxiously, Henry ! reasoning auxionaly. 
But Oropeza — 

JEarl Henry. Blessings gather round her ! 
Within this wood there winds a secret passage. 
Beneath the walls, which opens out at length 
Into the gloomiest covert of the garden. — 
The night ere my departure to the army, 
She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloora, 
And to that covert by a silent stream, 
Which, with one star reflected near its marge, 
Was the sole object visible around me. 
No leaflet stirred ; the air was almost sultry ; 
So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us ! 
No leaflet stirred ; — yet pleasure hung upon 
The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air. 
A little further on an arbor stood, 
Fragrant with flowering trees — 1 well remember 
What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness 
Their snow-white blossoms made — thither she led me, 
To that sweet bower I Then Oropeza trembled — 
1 heard her heart beat — if 'twere not my own. 

Sandoval. A rude and scaring note, my friend. 

Earl Henry. Oh ! no \ 

I have small memory of aught but pleasure. 
The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams 
Still flowing, still were lost in those of love : 
So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature, 
Fleeing from pain, sheltered herself in joy. 
The stars above our heads were dim and steady, 
Like eyes sufliised with rapture. — Life was in us : 
We were all life, each atom of our frames 
A living soul — I vowed to die for her : 
With the faint voice of one who, ha\'ing spoken, 
B elapses into blessedness, I vowed it : 
That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard, 


r breathed against a lady's ear. 
Oh [ there is joy above ^e name of pleasure. 
Deep self-poasessioD, an intense repose. 

Sandoval [with a sarcastic smile]. No other than as eastern 
sages paint, 
The God, who floats upon a lotos leaf, 
Droania for a thousand ages ; then awaking. 
Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble. 
Belapses into bliss. 

Earl Henry. Ah ! was that bliss 
Feared as an alien, and too vast for man ! 
For suddenly, impatient of its silence, 
Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead. 
I caught her arms ; the veins were swelling on them. 
Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice ; — 
" Oh i what if all betray me ? what if thou?" 
I swore, and with an inward thought that seemed 
The purpose and the sulHtance of my being, 
I swore to her, that were she red with guilt, 
I would exchange my unblenched stale with hers, — 
Friend ! by that winding passage, to that bower 
I now will go^all objects there will teach me 
Unwavering love, and singleness of heart. 
Go, Sandoval ! 1 am prepared to meet her — 
Say nothing of me — I myself will seek her — 
Nay, leave me, friend ! I can not bear the torment 
And keen inquiry of that scanning eye. — 

[Earl Henry relires into the wood ) 

Sandoval \alone\. Henry ! always striv'st thou to be great 
By thine own act — yet art thou never great 
But by the inspiration of great passion. 
The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up 
And shape themselves : from earth to heaven they stand. 
As though they were the pillars of a temple. 
Built by Omnipotence in its own honor ! 
But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit 
Is fled : the mighty columns were but sand. 
And lazy uwket trail o'er the level ruins ! 


TO AN unfortunate; woman, 


Mtrtle-leaf, that, ill besped, 

Finest in the gladsome ray, 
Soiled beneath the common tread, 

Far from thy protecting spray ! 

When the partridge o'er the sheaf 

Whirred along the yellow vale, 
Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf ! 

J>ove the daUiance of the gale. 

Lightly didst thou, foolish thing ! 

Heave and flutter to his sighs, 
While the flatterer, on his wing, 

Wooed and whispered thee to rise. 

Gaily from thy mother-stalk 

Wert thou danced and wafted high — 

Soon on this unsheltered walk 
Flung to fade, to rot and die. 


Maiden, that with sullen brow 
Sitt'st behind those virgins gay, 

Like a scorched and mildewed bough, 
Leafless 'mid the blooms of May ! 

liim who lured thee and forsook. 
Oft I watched with angry gaze, 

Fearful saw his pleading look, 
Anxious heard his fervid phrase. 

Soft the glances of the youth, 

Soft his speeoJi, and soft his sigh ; 

But no sound like simple truth, 
But no true love in his eye. 


Loathing thy polluted lot, 

Uie thee, KudeQ, hie thee henoe ! 
Seek thy weeping Mother'i cot, 

With a wiser innocence. 

Thou hast known deceit and folly, 
Thou hast felt that vice is woo : 

With a musing melancholy 
Inly armed, go, Uaidea 1 go. 

Uother sage of self-dominion, 
Firm thy steps, Melancholy ! 

The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion 
Is the memory of past folly. 

Mute the sky-laik and forlorn, 

While she moults the firstling plumes. 
That had skimmed the tender corn. 

Or the beanfield'a odorous blooms. 

Soon with lenovated wing 
Shall she dare a loftier flight, 

Upward to the day-star spring, 
And embathe in heavenly light. 


Nor cold, nor stern, my soul ! yet I detest 

These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, 

Heaves the proad harlot her distended breast 
In intricacies of laborious song. 

These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign 
To melt at Nature's passion- warbled plaint ; 

fiutwhen the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain 
Bursts in & squall — they gape for wonderment. 

Hark ! the deep buzz of vanity and hate I 
Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer 

My lady eyea some maid of humbler state, 
While the pert captain, or the primmer priest, 
Pnttle* acoordaut scandal ia her ear. 


give me, from this heartless scene released, 
To hear our old musician, Uind and gray, 

(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kissed,) 
His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play. 

By moonshine, on the halmy summer-night, 
The while I dance amid the tedded hay 

With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light. 

Or lies the purple evening on the hay 
Of the calm glossy lake, let me hide 

Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees. 
For round their roots the fisher*s boat is tied. 

On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease. 
And while the lazy boat sways to and fro. 

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, 
That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears. 

But 0, dear Anne ! when midnight wind careers. 
And the gust pelting on the out-house shed 

Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow, 

To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe. 
Ballad of shipwrecked sailor floating dead, 

AMiom his own true-love buried in the sands ! 
Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice re-measures 
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures 

The things of Nature utter ; birds or trees 
Or moan of ocean gale in weedy caves. 
Or where the stifl* grass mid the heath-plant waTea. 

Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. 


The tedded hay, the flrst fruits of the soil, 
The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one fleld. 
Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall 
Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust, 
Or when it bends beneath the upspringing lark, 
Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose 
(In vain the darling of successful love) 
Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, 



The thorns remainiog, and the flowers all gone. 

Nor cau I find, amid my lonely walk 

By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side, 

That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, 

Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not 1* 

So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline 

With delicate fingers on the suow-while silk 

Has worked, {the flowers which most she knew I lovi d,) 

And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair. 

In the cool morning twilight, early waked 
By her full bosom's joyous reslleseneBs, 
tSofUy she rose, and lightly stole along, 
Down the slope coppice lo the woodbine bower, 
Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze. 
Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung, 
Making a quiet image of disquiet 
In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. 
There, in that bower where first she owned btr love, 
And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy 
From off her glowing cheek, she sata and stretched 
The silk upon the frame, and worked her name 
Between the Uoss-Rose and Forget-me-not — 
Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair ! 
That forced to wander till sweet spring return, 
I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look, 
Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood 
Has made me wish lo steal away and weep.) 
Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss 
With which she promised, that when spring returned. 
She would resign one half of that dear name, 
And own thenceforth no other name but mine ! 

* Odc of the □ames (sod meriting to b« the only one) of the MymolUScor- 
piaidei PalHitrit, ■ flower from six to twelve inches liigh, with blue b1c«- 
■oin and bright yellotr eje. It btu the same name over the whole Empire 
ufQerniMij {VergiumrinnUhl), aad, I believe, in Deumsrk and Swedeu. 

VOL. VH. (J 



WITH falconer's " SHIPWKECK." 

Ah ! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams 
Li arched groves, the youthful poet's choice ; 

Nor while half-listening, mid delicious dreams. 
To harp and song from lady's hand and voice ; 

Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood 

On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell ; 
Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea- weed strewed. 

Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell ; 

Our sea-bard sang this song ! which still he sings, 
And sings for thee, sweet friend ! Hark, Pity, haik ! 

Now mouQts, now totters on the tempest's wings. 
Now groans, and shivers, the replunging bark ! 

" Cling to the shrouds !" In vain ! The breakers roar- 
Death shrieks ! With two alone of all his clan 

Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore, 
No classic roaincr, but a shipwrecked man ! 

Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains 

And lit his spirit to so bright a flame ? 
The elevating thought of suffered pains. 

Which gentle hearts shall mourn ; but chief, the name 

Of gratitude ! remembrances of friend, 

Or absent or no more ! shades of the Past, 

Which Love makes substance ! Hence to thee I send, 
dear as long as life and memory last ! 

I send with deep regards of heart and head, 

Sweet maid, for friendship formed ! this work to ♦hec ! 

And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed 
A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me. 



Whv need 1 say, Louisa dear I 
How glad I am to see you here, 

A lovely convalescent ; 
BJsen fioiQ the bed of pain and lear. 

And feveiish heat iacessaat. 

The sunny showen, the doppled sky 
The little birds that warble high, 

Their vernal loves commencing. 
Will better welcome you than I 

With their sweet influencing. 

Believe me, while in bed you lay. 
Your danger taught us all to pray : 

You made us grow devouter ! 
Bach eye looked up and seemed to say. 

How cBtt we do without her? 
Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew. 
They have no need of such as you 

In the place where you were goi'ig I 
This World has angels all too few. 

And Heaven is overflowiug ! 


If I had hut two little wings, 
And were a little feathery bird, 
To you I'd fly, my dear ! 
But thoughts like these are idle things. 
And I stay here. 

But in my sleep to you I fly : 

I'm always ivith you in my bleep ! 
Th« world is aJl one's own. 
Bat then one wakes, and where am I ? 


Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids : 
So I love to wake ere break of day : 
For though my sleep be gone, 
Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lida, 
And still dreams on. 



*Tis sweet to him, who all the week 
Through city-crowds must push his way, 

To stroll alone through fields and woods, 
And hallow thus the Sabbath-day. 

And sweet it is, in summer bower, 

Sincere, affectionate and gay. 
One's own dear children feasting round, 

To celebrate one's marriage-day. 

But what is all, to his delight, 

Who having long been doomed to roam, 

Throws ofi'the bundle from his back, 
Before the door of his own home ? 

Home-sickness is a wasting pang ; 

This feel I hourly more and more : 
There's healing only in thy wings, 

Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore ! 


Do you ask what the birds say ? The sparrow, the dove, 

The linnet and thrush say, " I love and I love I" 

In the winter they're silent — the wind is so strong : 

What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. 

But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weatliw. 

And singing, and loving — all come back together. 

But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, 

The green fields below him, the blue sky above. 

That he sings, and he sings ; and forever sings he^ 

** I love my Love, and my Love loves me I" 



Ere on my bed my limbs 1 lay, 
fiod grant toe grace my prayers to say : 
God ! preserve my molhcr dear 
In strength and health for many a year ; 
And, ! preserve my father loo, 
And may I pay him reverence due ; 
And may I my best thoughts employ 
To be my parents' hope and joy ; 
And, ! pTeserve my brothers both 
From evil doings and from sloth, 
And may we always love each other, 
Our friends, our father, and our mother '. 
And still, Lord, to me impart, 
An innocent and grateful heart, 
That aAer my last sleep I may 
Awake to thy eternal day 1 



Sad lot, to have no hope ! Though lowly kneelinjt 

He fain would frame a prayer within hia breast. 

Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing, 

That his sick body might have case and rest ; 

He strove in vain ! the dull sighs from his chest 

Against his will the stifling load revealing, 

Though Nature forced ; though like some captive gnett. 

Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, 

An alien's restless mood but half concealing, 

The sternness on bis gentle brow confessed, 

Sickness within and miserable feeling : 

Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, 

And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain. 

Each night was scattered by its own loud screams : 

Yet never could his heart command, though faia. 

One deep full wish to be no more in pain, 


That Hope, which was his inward bhss and boast. 
Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood. 
Though changed in nature, wander where be would— 
For Love's despair is but Hope's pining ghost ! 
For this one hope he makes his hourly moan, 
He wishes and can wish for this alone ! 
Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams 
(So the love-stricken visionary deems) 
Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, 
Whose dews fling sunshine from the noontide bower I 
Or let it stay ! yet this one Hope should give 
Such strength that he would bless his pains and live 


Oft, oft methinks, the while with Thee 
I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear 
And dedicated name, I hear 

A promise and a mystery, 

A pledge of more than passing life, 
Yea, in that very name of Wife I 

A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep ! 

A feeling that upbraids the heart 

With happiness beyond desert. 
That gladness half requests to weep ! 

Nor bless I not the keener sense 

And unal arming turbulence 

Of transient joys that ask no sting 
From jealous fears, or coy denying ; 
But born beneath Love's brooding wing 

And into tenderness soon dying. 

Wheel out their giddy moment, then 
Resign the soul to love again ; — 

A more precipitated vein, 

Of notes, that eddy in the flow 

Of smoothest song, they come, they go. 

And leave their sweeter understrain 
Its own sweet self — a love of Thee 
That seems, yet can not greater be ! 


How warm this woodland wild Recess I 
Love surety bath been breatbing bere ; 
And this sweet bed of heatb, my dear 

Swells up, then sinks with faiut caress, 
As if to have you yet more near. 

Eight springs have flown, since last I Uy 
On seaward Q,uant[>ck'a heatby hills, 
Where quiet sounds from hidden rills 

Float bere and there, like things astray, 
And high o'er head the sky-lark sbrilla. 

No voice as yet had made the air 
Be music with your name ; yet why 
That asking look ? that yearning sigh ! 

That sense of promise everywhere i 
Beloved ! flow your spirit by ? 

As when a mother doth explore 

The rose-mark on her long lost child, 
I met, I loved you, maiden mild I 

As whom I long had loved before— 
So deeply, had 1 been beguiled 

Yon stood before me like a thought. 

A dream remembered in a dream. 

But when those meek eyes first did seei 
To tell me, Lovo within you wrought — 

(rreta, dear domestic stream ! 

Has not, since then. Love's prompture deep 
Has not Love's whisper evermore 


Been ceaseless as thy gentle roar ? 
Sole voice, when other voices deep, 
Dear under-song in clamor's hour. 




God be with thee, gladsome ocean ! 

How gladly greet I thee once more I 
Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion. 

And men rejoicing on thy shore. 

Dissuading spake the mild physician, 

" Those briny waves for thee are death !" 

But my soul fulfilled her mission, 

And lo I I breathe untroubled breath ! 

Fashion's pining sous and daughters. 
That Sfck the crowd they seem to fly, 

Trembling they approach thy waters ; 
And what cares Nature, if they die ? 

Me a thousand hopes and pleasures, 

A thousand recollections bland, 
Thoughts sublime, and stately measures. 

Revisit on thy echoing strand : 

Dreams, (the soul herself forsaking,) 

Tearful raptures, boyish mirth ; 
Silent adorations, making 

A blessed shadow of this Earth ! 

yc hopes, that stir within me, 

Health comes with you from above 1 
God is with me, God is in me I 

I can not die, if Life be Love. 




Tka, he (leaerveB to find himself deceived, 
^VIjo Be«k> B heart in the until in king ilmi. 
Like thadows od a itreuni, the furiim of life 
Iiiipresa their cboractera uii the Bmooth fureliead: 
Nniiij;ht einks iuto the bueum's gilent depth. 
(Jiiiek a 'nsibitit]'' of pnin and pleasure 
M'lVM the light fluids liglittv ; but ui> mhiI 
Woriueth the inner frame. Schilleb. 



Beiide* the Riven, Arve and ArTeiron. which have their aourcet in tlic 
£>c>t of Uunt Ulnnc, Eve coDipicuoua tnrrents rush duwn its aides ; and with- 
in B fev paces iif the Glaciers, the Oentiana Uajar growa in imnieoae num- 
bers iritb its " flowers of loveliest blue." 

Hast thou a charm to stay the moming-atar 
In his steep coune ? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald awful head.'O sovran Blanc ! 
The Arve aud Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, moat awful Form ! 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass: methinks thou pierceat it, 
Ab with a wed^ ! But when I look again. 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy hftbiUtion from eternity I 

dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

iJidst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayet 

1 wonhiped the Invisible alone. 


Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thooghtp 
Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy : 
Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, 
Into the mighty vision passing — there 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears. 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my Heart, awake I 
Green vales and icy clifis, all join my Hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Yale ! 
O struggling with the darkness all the night. 
And visited all night by troops of stars. 
Or when they clirnb the sky or when they sink : 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald : wake, wake, and utter praise I 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth ? 
"Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
AVho made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 

And YOU, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death. 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged Rocks, 
Forever shattered and the same forever ? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded (and the silence came,) 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 

Ye ice-falls I } j that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
Ami stopped at once amid their maddest plunge 1 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 


Who made you glorious as ihe gates of Heaven 
Benestli the keen full moon ? Wlio badu the sim 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with liviug flowers 
or loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet i — 
God ! let the torrents, like a ahout of nations, 
Answer I and let the ice-plains echo, (lod ! 
God ! sing ye reeadow-Btreama with gladsome voice ! 
Ye pine-groves, with your ioft and soul-like sounds ! 
And they too have a voice, you piles of snow. 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder. God 1 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal iirost ! 
Ye wild goata sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! 
Ye signs and wonders of the clement ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 

Thou too, hoar Uoiint ! with thy sky-pointing peakii 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
Inta the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast — 
Thou too again, slupendoua Mountain 1 thou 
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes sufliised with tear*. 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud. 
To nse before me— Rise, ever rise. 
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth ! 
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou diead ambassailor from Earth to Heaven, 
Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky. 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Bartb, with her thousand voices, praises God. 





I STCOD on Brocken's* sovran height, and 8aw 

Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills, 

A surging scene, and only limited 

By the blue distance. Heavily my way 

Downward I dragged through fir groves evermore. 

Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms 

Speckled with sunshine ; ani, but seldom heard. 

The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound ; 

And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly, 

Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct 

From many a note of many a waterfall, 

And the brook's chatter ; 'mid whose islet stones 

The dingy kidliug with its tinkling bell 

Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat 

Sat. his white beard slow waving. I moved on 

In low and languid mood if for I had found 

That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive 

Their finer influence from the Life within ; — 

Fair ciphers else : fair, but of import vague 

Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds 

History or prophecy of friend, or child, 

Or gentle maid, our first and early love, 

Or fatiier, or the venerable name 

Of our adored country I thou Q,ueen, 

Thou delegated Deity of Earth, 

dear, dear England ! how my longing eye 

Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds 

Thy sands and high white clifls I 

* The highest mouotaio in the Uortz, and indeed in North G«rnuuiy 

f When I have gazed 

From 8«)mc liigh eminence on goodly vales, 

And ct)t8 and villages embowered below. 

The thought would rise that all to me was strange 

Amid the scenes so (air, nor one small spot 

Where my tired mind might rest, and call it home. 

Souihev'M H^mn to the PenBin 


My native Land ! 
Filled with tlie tbougbt of thee this heart was proud, 
Yea, mine eye swam with tears : that all the view 
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody bills, 
Flnated away, like a departing dream, 
Fcuble and dim ! Stranger, these impulses 
Blame thou not lightly ; nor will I proCune, 
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, 
That man's sublimer spir t, who can feci 
That God is everywhere I the Gwl who framed 
Mankind lo be one mighty family, 
Himself our Father, and the World our Home. 


Sweet Flower I that peeping from lliy russet stem 

UtiroEdest timidly, (for in «trange sort 

This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teulh-chalecring Month 

Hath borrowed Zephyr's voine, and gazed ujion thee 

With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor Flower ! 

The«e are but ftalteries of the faithless yetr. 

Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave. 

E'en now the keen North-East is on itsv-oy. 

Flower that must perish ! sliall I liken thee 

To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth 

Kipped by consumption mid untimely ch:iTiES ? 

Of to Bristowa's bard,* the wondrous boy ! 

An amaranth, which Earth scarce seemeil lo own, 

Till disappointment came, and peltitig wrcu^ 

Beat it to Earth 1 orwilh indignant grief 

Khali I compare thco to poor Poland's hope. 

Bright flower of Hope killed iu the opening bnd? 

Farewell, sweet blossom 1 belter fate be ihike 

And mock my boding I Dim similitudes 

Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour 

P'rom anxious self, Life's cruel task-master ! 

And the waTCt wooings of this sunny day 


Tremble along my irame, and harmonize 
The attempered organ, that even saddest thooghts 
Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes 
Flayed deftly on a soft-toned instrument. 



My pensive Sara ! thy soil cheek reclined 
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is 
To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown 
' ' "With white-flowered jasmin, and the broad-leaved myrtlei 
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love !) 
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light. 
Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve 
Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) 
Shine opposite ! How exquisite the scents 
Snatched from von bean-field ! and the world so hushed 
The stilly munnur of the distant sea 
Tells us of silence. 

And that simplest lute, 
Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark! 
How by the desultory breeze caressed. 
Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover. 
It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs 
Tempt to repeat the wrong I And now, its strings 
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes 
Over delicious surges sink and rise. 
Such a soft floating witchery of sound 
As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve 
Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, 
Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers, 
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, 
Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing ! 
the one life within us and abroad, 
AVhich meets all motion and becomes its soul, 
A light in sound, a sound-like power in light 
Rh}'thm in all thought, and jovance everywhere— 


HcthinkB, it should have been impossible 
Not to love all things in a world so filled ; 
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air 
Is Music slumbering on her instrument. 

And thus, my love I as on the midway slope 
or yonder bill I ettetch my limbs at noon, 
"Wbilst through my half-closed eyelids I behold 
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main, 
And tranquil muse upon tranquillity : 
Full many a thought uncalled and undetained, 
And many idle flitting phantasies, 
Traverse my indolent and passive brnin, 
As wild and various as the random gales 
That swell and flutter on this subject lute ! 

And what if all of animated nature 
Be but organic harps diversely framed, 
That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweep* 
Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze. 
At once the Soul of each, and God of AU ? 

But thy more serious eye a mild reproof 
Darts; beloved woman ! nor such thoughts •-"■'- 
Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject, 
And biddest me walk humbly with my God 
Meek daughter in the family of Christ ! 
Well hast thou said and holily dispraised 
These shapings of the unregenerate mind ; 
Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break 
On vain Philosophy's aye-babbUng spring. 
For never guiltless may I speak of him. 
The Incomprehensible ! save when with awe 
1 praise him, and with Faith that inly feels ; 
Who with his saving mercies healed me, 
A sinful and moat miserable man, 
Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess 
Peace, and this cot, and thee, heart-honored Maid 




Sermooi propriora. — ^bob. 

liow was our pretty Cot : onr tallest rose 
Peeped at the chainber-window. We could hear 
At silent noon, and eve, and early mom. 
The sea's faint murmur. In the open air 
Our myrtles hlossomed ; and acroes the porch 
Thick jasmius twined : the little landscape round 
Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye. 
It was a 8|K)t which you might aptly call 
The Valley of Seclusion I Once I saw 
(Hallowing his Sabbath-day hy quietness) 
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by, 
Bristowa*s citizen : methought, it calmed 
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse 
VVith wiser feelings ; for he paused, and looked 
\Vith a pleased sadness, and gazed all around. 
Then eyed our Cottage, and gazed round again, 
And sighed, and said, it was a Blessed Place. 
And we were blessed. Oft with patient ear 
Long listening to the viewless sky-lark's note 
(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen 
Gleaming on sunny wings) in whispered tones 
I've said to my heloved, " Such, sweet girl I 
The inobtrusive song of happiness, 
Unearthly minstrelsy I then only heard 
When the soul seeks to hear ; when all is hushed. 
And the heart listens !" 

But the time when first. 
From that low dell, steep up the stony mount 
I climbed with perilous toil, and reached the top. 
Oh ! what a goodly scene I Here the hleak mount. 
The hare hleak mountain speckled thin with sheep ; 
Gray clouds, that shadowing s]K)t the sunny fields ; 
And river, now with hushy ro^ks o'erhrowed. 
Now winding hright and full, with naked banks ; 


And seats, and lawns, the Abbey and the wood, 
And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire ; 
The Channel there, the Islands and white sails. 
Dim coasts, and cloud-like hilla, and shorele&s Ocean— 
It seemed like Omnipresence ! God, methought. 
Had built him there & temple : the whole "World 
Seemed imaged in its vast circumference, 
Ko wish profaned my overwhelmed heart. 
IJiesl hour I It was a luxury, — to be ! 

Ah ! quiet dell ! dear cot, and mount sublime I 
I WHS constrained to quit you. Was it ri{;ht, 
"Wliile my unnumbered brethren toiled and bled. 
That I should dream away the intrusted hours 
Oil roee-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart 
With feelings all too delicate for use ? 
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eyo 
Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth : 
And he that works me good with unmoved face. 
Dues it but half: he chills me while he aids, 
My benefactor, not my brother man ! 
Yet even this, this cold beneficence 
Praise, praise it, my Soul I oft as thou scann'st 
The sluggard Pity's vision- weaving tribe ! 
Who sigh for wretchednesH, yet shun the wretched, 
Nursing in some delicious solitude 
Their slothful loves and daiuly sympathies ! 
I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand, 
Active and firm, to fight the bloodless light 
or science, freedom, and the truth in Christ. 

Yet oft when after honorable toil 
Rests the tired mind, and waking lores to dream, 
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot ! 
Thy jasmin and thy windnw-pecping rose. 
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea -air. 
And I shall sigh fond wishes — sweet abode ! 
Ah! — had none greater I And that all had such I 
It might be BO— but the time is not yet. 
Speed it, Father ! Let thy kingdom come \ 




Notus in fratres animi patemL 

Hob. Corm. lilx I. 2. 

A BLESSED lot hath he, who having passed 

His youth and early manhood in the stir 

And turmoil of the world, retreats at length, 

With cares that move, not agitate the heart. 

To the same dwelling where his father dwelt ; 

And haply views his tottering little ones 

Emhrace those aged knees and climh that lap. 

On which first kneeling his own infancy 

Lisped its hrief prayer. Such, my earliest Friend ! 

Thy lot, and such thy hrothers too enjoy. 

At distance did ye climh life's upland road, 

Yet cheered and cheering : now fraternal love 

Hath drawn yoii to one centre. Be your days 

Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live ! 

To me the Eternal Wisdom hath dispensed 
A difTereiit fortune and more diiiercnt mind — 
Me from the spot where first I sprang to light 
Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fixed 
Its first domestic loves ; and hence through life 
Chasing chance-started friendships. A brief while 
Some have preserved me from life's pelting ills ; 
But, like a tree with leaves of feeble stem, 
If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze 
Ruffled the boughs, tliey on my head at once 
Drop{>ed the collected shower ; and some most false, 
False and fair foliaged as the Manchineel, 
Have tempted me to slumber in their shade 
E'en mid the storm ; then breathing subtlest damps, 
Mixed their own venom with the rain from Heaven, 
That I woke poisoned ! But, all praise to Him 
Who gives us all things, more have yielded me 
Permanent shelter ; and beside one friend. 
Beneath the impervious covert of one oak, 


I've laiied a lowly ahed, and know the namei 
Of huBband and of father; not unhearinf; 
Of that divine and mighty- whigpering voice, 
Which from my childhood to maturer yeara 
Spake to me of predestinated wreaths, 
Bright vrith no fading colors ! 

Yet at times 
My soul is sad, that I have roamed through life 
Still most a stranger, raott with naked heart 
At mine own home and birth-place : chiefly then, 
When 1 remember thee, my earliest friend ! 
Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth; 
Didst trace my wanderings wilh a father's eye ; 
And boding evil yet still hoping good, 
Rebuked each fault, and over all my woes 
Sorrowed in aileuce I He who counts alone 
The beatings of the solitary heart, 
That beiog knows, how 1 have loved thee ev«r. 
Loved as a brother, as a son revered thee ! 
Oh ! 'tis to me an ever new delight. 
To talk of thee and thine : or when the blast 
Of the shrill winter, rattling our rude sash. 
Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl ; 
Or when as now, on some delicious eve, 
We in our sweet sequestered orchard-plot 
Sit on the tree crooked earth-ward ; whose old boughi, 
That hang above us in an arborous roof. 
Stirred by the faint gale of departing May, 
Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads ! 

Ifor dost not thou sometimes recall those hours. 
When with the joy of hope thou gav'est thine ear 
To my wild firstling-lays. Since then my song 
Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem 
Or that sad wisdom folly leavi^a behind, 
Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times, 
Cope with the tempest's swell ! 

These various strains, 
Which I have framed in many a various mood. 


Accept, my brother ! and (for eome perchance 
"Will strike discordant on thy milder mind) 
If aught of error or intemperate truth 
Should meet thine ear, think thou that riper age 
Will calm it down, and let thy love forgive it ! 



Tins Sycamore, oil musical with bees, — 

Such tents the Patriarchs loved ! long unharmed 

May all its aged boughs o*er-canopy 

The small round basin, which this jutting stone 

Keeps pure from falling leaves ! Long may the Sf tinf^, 

duietly as a sleeping infant's breath, 

Send up cold waters to the traveller 

With soft and even pulse I Nor ever cease 

Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance, 

Which at the bottom, like a Fair}'*s page, 

As merry and no taller, dances still, 

Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount. 

Here twilight is and coolness : here is moss, 

A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade. 

Thou inav'st toil far and find no second tree. 

Brink, Pilgrim, here ; Here rest I and if thy heart 

Be iimoceiit. here too shalt thou refresh 

Thy Spirit, listening to some gentle sound, 

Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees ! 


'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane I 
(So call him, lor so mingling blame with praise, 
And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends, 
Mu^king his birth-name, wont to character 
Jlis wild- wood fancy and impetuous zeal,) 
Tis true that, passionate for ancient truths. 
And honoring with religions love the great 
Of elder times, he hated to excess. 


With an imquiet and intolerant scorn, 

The hollow puppetB of & hoUoii age, 

Kvec idolatrous, and changing ever 

Its worthless idols ! learning, power, aud time, 

(Too much of all) thus wasting in vain war 

Of fervid colloquy. Sickness, 'tis true, 

Whole years of weary days, besieged him close. 

Even to the gates and inlets of his life ! 

Bnt it is true, no lees, that strenuous, iirm, 

And with a natural gladness, he maiiitaiued 

The citadel unconquered, aud in joy 

Was strong to follow the delightful Muse. 

For not a hidden path, that to the shades 

Of the beloved Parnassian forest leads, 

Lnrked undiscovered hy him ; not a. rill 

There issues from the Ibunt of Hippoerene, 

But he had traced it upward to its source. 

Through open Igade, dark glen, and secret dell. 

Knew the gay wild flowera on its banks, and culled 

Its med'cinable herbs. Yea, oil alone, 

Piercing ibe long-ueglected holy cave, 

The haunt obscure of olil Philosophy, 

He bade with lilted torch its starry walU 

Sparkle, as erst they sparkled to the flame 

Of odoroDS lamps tended by Saint and Sage. 

framed for calmer times and nobler hearts ! 

studious Poet, eloquent for truth ! 

Philosopher ! contemning wealth and death, 

Yet docile, childlike, full of Life and Love ! 

Here, rather than on monumental stone, 

This record of thy worth thy Friend inscribe*. 

Thoughtful, with quiet tears 'ipon hii chctik. 



Iq the June of 1797, some long-expected FrieDds paid a ^Uit to the 
author*s cottage ; and on the morning of their arriyal, he met with an aeei- 
dent, xrhich disabled him from walking during the whole time of their ataj 
One evening, when they had left him for a few houra, he oompoaed the Il*1- 
lowing lines in the garden-bower. 

Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, 
This lime-tree bower my prison I I have lost 
Beauties and feelings, such as would have been 
Most sweet to my remembrance even when age 
Had dimmed mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile. 
Friends, whom I never more may meet again. 
On spring}' heath, along the hill-top edge, 
Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance. 
To that still roaring dell, of which I told ; 
The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep, 
And only speckled by the mid-day sun ; 
W^here its slim tnmk the ash from rock to rock 
Flings arching like a bridge ; — that branchless ash, 
Unsunned and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves 
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, 
Fanned by the waterfall ! and there my friends 
Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,* 
That all at once (a most fantastic sight !) 
Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge 
Of the blue clay -stone. 

Now, my friends emerge 
Beneath the wide wide Heaven — and view again 
The many-steepled tract magnificent 
Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea. 
With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up 
The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles 
Of purple shadow ! Yes ! they wander on 
In gladness all ; but thou, inethinks, most g]ad, 
My gentle-hearted Charles ! for thou hast pined 

* Of loftff lank weed*."] The asplenium scolopendrium, called in some 
eountries the Adder's Tongue, in others the Hart's Tongue ; but Withering 
gires the Adder's Tongue as the trivial name of the ophioglossum only. 


With lively joy the jo3r8 we can not share. 
My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the last rook 
Beat its straight path along the dusky air 
Homewards, I blest it ! deeming, its black wing 
(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) 
Had crossed the mighty orb's dilated glory. 
While Uiou stood'st gazing ; or when all was still, 
♦Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm 
For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom 
No sound is dissonant which tells of Life. 




Dear Charles I whilst yet thou wert a babe, I ween 
That Genius plunged thee in that wizard fount 
Hight Castalie : and (sureties of thy faith) 
That Pity and Simplicity stood by. 
And promised for thee, that thou shouldst renounce 
The world's low cares and lying vanities, 
Steadfast and rooted in the heavenly Muse, 
And washed and sanctified to Poesy. 


Yes — thou wert plunged, but with forgetful hand 

Held, as by Thetis erst her warrior son : 

And with those recreant unbaptized heels 

Thou'rt flying from thy bounden minist'ries — 

So sore it seems and burthcnsome a task 

To weave unwithering flowers ! But take thou heed : 

For thou art vulnerable, wild-eyed boy. 

And I have arrowsf myslically dipt, 

Such as may stop thy speed. Is thy Burns dead ? 

And shall he die unwept, and sink to earth 

• Flew ereehinfj.'\ Some months after I had written this line, it gave me 
pleasure to find tliat Bartram had observed the same circumstance of the 
Savannah Crane. ** When these birds move their wings in flight, their strokes 
are slow, moderate and regular ; and even when at a considerable distance or 
high above us, we plainly liear the quill-feathers ; their shafts and webs upoii 
me another creek a<i the joints or working of a vessel in a tempestuous aea." 

t PindOlymp ii. 1. '50 


" Without the meed of one melodiona tear ?" 
Thy Burns, and Nature's own beloved bard, 
Who to the " Illustrious* of his native Land 
So properly did look for patronage." 
Ghost of MteeenaB ! hide thy blushing face ! 
They snatched him from the sickle and the plough- 
To gauge ale-firkins. 

Oh I for shame return I 
On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian mount, 
There stands a lone and melancholy tree, 
Wbose aged branches to the midnight hlast 
Make solemn music : pluck its darkest bough. 
Ere yet the unwholesome night-duw be exhaled. 
And weeping wreathe it round thy Poet's tomb. 
Then in the outskirts, where pollutions grow, 
Pick the rank henbane and the dusky Hewers 
or night-shade, or its red and tempting fruit, 
These with stopped nostril and glove-guarded hand 
Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine, 
The illustrious brow of Scotch Nobility. 




FniEND of the wise ! and teacher of the good 1 
Into my heart have I received that lay 
More than historic, that prophetic lay 
Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) 
Of the foundations and the building up 
Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell 
What may be told, to the understanding mind 
Revealable ; and what within the mind 
By vital breathings secret as the soul 
Of vernal growth, oil quickens in the heart 
Thoughts all too deep for words 1 — 
* Verbatim Ihnn Buma' dedioatim of hi* Poem to the Nobility and Gen 
tr^ of th« CalednoiiiD Bunt 

VOL vn. H 


Theme hard at higli 
Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears, 
(The first-bom they of Reason and twin-birth) 
Of tides obedient to external force. 
And currents self-determined, as might seem. 
Or by some inner power ; of moments awful, 
Now in thy inner life, and now abroad. 
When power streamed from thee, and thy soul received 
The light reflected, as a light bestowed — 
Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth, 
Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought 
Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens 
Native or outland, lakes and famous hills ! 
Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars 
Were rising ; or by secret mountain-streams. 
The guides and the companions of thy way ! 

or more than Fancy, of the Social Sense 
Distending wide, and man beloved as man, 
Where France in all her towns lay vibrating 
Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst 
Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud 
Is visible, or shadow on the main. 
For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded. 
Amid the tremor of a realm aglow, 
Amid a mighty nation jubilant, 
When from the general heart ef human kind 
Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity I 

Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down. 

So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure 

From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self, 

With light unwaning on her eyes, to look 

Far on — herself a glory to behold. 

The Angel of the vision I Then (last strain) 

Of Duty, chosen laws controlling choice, 

Action and joy ! — An Orphic song indeed 

A song divine of high and passionate tlioughu 

To their own music chanted I 

great Bard ! 
Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air, 


Willi Bleaiifast eye I viewed thee in the choir 
Of cvcr-eiiduring men. The truly great 
Have all one age, and from one vieibte gpaco 
Shed influence ! They, both in power and act. 
Are permanent, and time is not with them, 
Save as it workelh for them, they in it. 
Not less a sacred roll, than those of old, 
And to be placed, a.e they, with gradual fame 
Among the arcbivea of mankind, thy work 
Makes audible a. linked ky of Truth, 
Of truth profound a sweet continuous lay, 
Not learnt, but native, her own natural notc« ! 
Ah 1 as I listened with a heart forlorn, 
The pulses of my being beat anew i 
And even as life returne upon the drowned. 
Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains — 
Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe 
Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart ; 
And feais sel(-willed, that shunned the eye of hope; 
And hope that scarce would know itself from fear; 
ijense of past youth, and manhood come in vain. 
And genius given, and knowledge won in vain ; 
And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild, 
And all which patient toil had reared, and all, 
Commune with thee had opened out — but flowcn 
Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier, 
In the same coffin, for the self-same grave ! 

That way no more ! and ill beseems it me, 
Who came a welcomer in herald's guise. 
Singing of glory and futurity. 
To w&nder back on such unhealthful road, 
Plucking the poisons of self-harm ! And ill 
Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreatfaa 
Strewed before thy advancing I 

Nor do thun. 
Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that hour 
Of thy communion with my nobler mind 
By pity or irrieC already tiilt too long 1 


Nor let my words import more blame than needi 
The tumult rose and ceased : for peace is nigh 
Where wisdom's voice has found a listening heart. 
Amid the howl of more than wintry storms, 
The halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours 
Already on the wing. 

Eve following eve, 
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home 
Is sweetest ! moments for their own sake hailed 
And more desired, more precious for thy song. 
In silence listening, like a devout child. 
My soul lay passive, by thy various strain 
Driven as in surges now beneath the stars. 
With momentary stars of my own birth, 
Fair constellated foam,* still darting off 
Into the darkness ; now a tranquil sea. 
Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the moon. 

And when — Friend I my comforter and guide ! 
Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength I — 
Thy long sustained Song finally closed, 
And thy deep voice had ceased — yet thou thyself 
Wert still before my eyes, and round us both 
That happy vision of beloved faces — 
Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close 
I sate, my being blended in one thought 
(Thought was it ? or aspiration ? or resolve ?) 
Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound — 
And when I rose, I found myself in prayer. 

* " A beautiful "white cloud of foam at momentary ioterrals coursed by 
the side of the vessel with a roar, and little stars of flame daoced and 
sparkled and went out in it : and every now and then light detachments 
of this white cloud-like foam darted off from the vessers side, each with its 
own small constellation, over the sea, and scoured out of sight like a Tartar 
troop over a wilderness." — The Friend, 




No cloud, no relique of the sunken day 

Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip 

Of Butlea light, no obscure trembling hues. 

Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge) 

You see the glimmer of the stream beneath. 

But hear no murmuring : it flows silently, 

O'er its so^ bed of verdure. All is still, 

A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim. 

Yet lot us think upon the vernal showers 

That gladden the green earth, and we shall fiad 

A pleasure in the dimness of the stare. 

And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song. 

" Most musical, most melani;holy" bird !• 

A melancholy bird 1 Oh ! idle thought I 

In nature there is nothing melancholy 

But some night* wandering luan whose heart was pierced 

With the rememhrance of a grievous wrong, 

Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 

(And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with himself. 

And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 

Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he. 

First named these notes a melancholy strain. 

And many a poet echoes the conceit ; 

Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 

When he had better far have stretched his limba 

Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, 

By sun or moon-light, to the influxes 

Of shapes and sounds and shifUng elements 

Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 

And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 

Should share in Nature's immortality, 

' " ifn$t mvticaC, moit mrlanchiltf.'l This puaagfl b MtUon po«a«M.<* 
wi txevUeaix tar aupcrior to tliat of mere deBcriptiuD. It is spukeD in tiia 
tliaraeter of tbfl raelaacboly man, tad baa therefcie a dramatic propriety. 
Hie aaUior make* tbii remark, to rcMue bimulf Trom th« charge of baviug 
•Uuded vith Urity to a liu* in Hilloo. 


A venerable thing ! and so his song 
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
Be loved like Nature ! But 'twill not be so ; 
And youths and maidens most poetical, 
Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring 
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 

Mv Friend, and thou, our Sister ! we have learnt 
A different lore : we may not thus profane 
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
And joyance I Tis the merry Nightingale 
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
With fast thick warble his delicious notes. 
As he were fearful that an April night 
Would be too short for him to utter forth 
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
Of all its music ! 

And I know a grove 
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 
Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 
This groN'c is wild with tangling underwood. 
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass. 
Thin grass and kiiig-cups grow within the paths. 
But never elsewhere in one place 1 knew 
So many nightingales ; and far and near. 
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove. 
They answer and provoke each other's song. 
With skirmish and capricious passagings. 
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, 
And one low piping sound more sweet than all — 
Stirring the air with such a harmony. 
That should you close your eyes, you might almost 
Forget it was not dav ! On moon-lit bushes, 
Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, 
You may perchance behold them on the twigr, 
TL«^ir bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full. 
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
Lights up her love-torch. 


A most gentle Maid, 
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 
(Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate 
To something more than Nature in the grove) 
Glides through the pathways ; she knows all their notets 
That gentle Maid ! and oil a moment's space, 
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, 
Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the moon 
Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky 
With one sensation, and these wakeful birds 
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 
As if some sudden gale had swept at once 
A hundred airy harps! And she hath watched 
Many a nightingale perched giddily 
On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze 
And to that motion tune his wanton song 
Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. 

Farewell, Warbler! till to-morrow eve. 
And you, ray friends ! farewell, a short farewell ! 
We have been loitering long and pleasantly, 
And now for our dear homes. — That strain again ! 
Full fain it would delay mc ! My dear babe. 
Who, capable of no articulate sound, 
Mars all things with his imitative lisp, 
How he would place his hand beside his oar, 
His little hand, the small forefinger up. 
And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise 
To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well 
The evening-star ; and once, when he awoke 
In most distressful mood (some inward pain 
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream. — ) 
I hurried with him to our orchard-plot, 
And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once, 
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently. 
While his fair eyes, that swam with undropped tears. 
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam ! Well ! — 
It is a father's tale : But if that Heaven 


Should give me Lfe, his childhood shall grow up 
Familiar with these songs, that with the night 
He may associate joy. — Once more, farewell, 
Sweet Nightingale ! Once more, my friends ! farewell 


The frost performs its secret ministry, 
Uuhelped by any wind. The owlet *s cry 
Came loud — and hark, again ! loud as beibre. 
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, 
Have lefl me to that solitude, which suits 
Abstruser musings : save that at my side 
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs 
And vexes meditation with its strange 
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood. 
This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood, 
With all the numberless goings on of life. 
Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame 
Lies on my low burnt fire, and quivers not ; 
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, 
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature 
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live. 
Making it a conipanionable form. 
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit 
By its own moods interprets, everywhere 
Echo or mirror seeking of itself. 
And makes a toy of Thought. 

But I how oil. 
How oft, at school, with most believing mind, 
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, 
To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oil 
W'ith unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, 
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 
From mom to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me 


With a wild pleasure, falling on mine car 
Most like articulate sounds of things to come 1 
So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt 
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams ! 
And so 1 brooded all the following morn, 
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book : 
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched 
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up. 
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, 
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved. 
My playmate when we both were clothed alike ! 

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, 
AYhose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 
Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
And momentary pauses of the thought ! 
My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, 
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore ^ \ 
And in far other scenes ! For I was reared 
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, 
And saw naught lovely but the sky and stars. ^ 
But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze 
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
or ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, 
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
And mountain crags : so shalt thou sec and hear 
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
Of that eternal language, which thy God 
Utters, who from eternity doth leach 
Himself in all, and all things in himself 
Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould 
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 
Whether the summer clothe the general earth 
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 
Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eve-drops tall 



Heard only in the trances of the hlast. 
Or if the secret ministry of frost 
Shall hang them up in silent icicles, 
Q^uietly shining to the quiet Moon. 



(The Author has published the following humble fragmeiit, eneoaniged 
hy the decisive recoDimendation of more than one of our mc«t celebrated 
living Poets. The language was intended to be dramatic ; that is, suited to 
the narrator ; and the metre corresponds to the homeUness of the diction. 
It is therefore presented as the fragment, not of a Poem, but of a coounoo 
Ballad-tale. Whether this is sufficient to justify the adoption of such a 
style, in any metrical composition not professedly ludicrous, the Author is 
himself in doubt. At all events, it is not presented as poetry, and it is io 
no way connected with the author's judgment concerning poetic diction. 
Its merits, if any, are exclusively psychological. The story which must be 
supposed to have been narrated in the first and second parts is as follows. 

Edward, a young farmer, meets at the house of Ellen her bosom-friend 
Mary, and commences an acquaintance, which ends in a mutual attachment 
With her consent, and bv the advice of their common friend Ellen, he an- 
uounces his hopes and intentions to Mary*s mother, a widow-woman bor 
deriug on hor fortieth year, and from constant health, the possession of a 
competent propi-rty, and from having had no other children but Mary and 
another daughter (the father died in their infancy), retaining for the greater 
part, her personal attractions and comeliness of appearance ; but a woman 
of low education and violent temper. The answer which she at once re- 
turned to Edward's application was rem.irkable — " Well, Edward! you are 
a handsome youn-; fellow, and you shall liave my daughter.** From this 
time all their wooing passed under the mother's eye; and, in fine, she be- 
came herself enamored of her future son-in-law, and practised every art. 
l»th of endearment and of calunmy, to transfer his affections from her 
daughter to herself. (The outlines of the Tale are positive facts, and of no 
very distant date, though the author has purposely altered the names and 
the scene of action, as well as invented the characters of the parties and 
the detail of the incidents.) Edward, however, though perplexed by her 
strange detractions from her daughter's good qualities, yet in the innocence 
of his own heart still mistaking her increasing fondness for motherly affec- 
tion ; she at length, overcome by her miserable passion, after much abuse 
of Mary's temper and moral tendencies, exclaimed with violent emotion — 
** O Edward I indeed, indeed, she is not fit for you — she has not a heart to 
love you as you deserve. It is I that love you 1 Marry me, Edward 1 and 
I wili this very day settle all my property oo you." The Lover's eyes were 
DOW opeoed ; and thus taken by surprise, whether from the effect of the 


WRTOT whieh he felt, aedng a* it were fajstericalty on hia nervoui aysteDi, 
or that kt Ihe fint moiDeut be loat tbe Bense of f^tt of the proposal id 
the feellnz of its ■CraiigeoEeB aoii absurditj, lie flung her from him and 
burst iata & fit of kughtcr. Irritated by this almoBt to frenij, the woman 
fell on bcr knees, and in a lond voice that approached to n scream, she 
prayetl for a curie both on him and od her owu child. Uary happened to 
be in the room directly above them, heard Edward's Uugh, and her moth- 
er's blaaphemauB prajer, and tiunted ntvay. lie, bearing the fall, ran up 
ftairs, and taking her in his arms, carried lier otf to Ellen's home ; ann 
after some fruitleia attempts on her part Uiirard a recoDciliatioa with hei 
mi'tlier, she was nwrrjed to him.— And here the third part of the Tale 

I was not led to eboose this story from nnj partiality la tragio, much leu 
to monstrous events (though at tbe time that I composed the verseB, soEue- 
wlint more than twelve years ago, I was less averse to such sul^ects than 
at present), but frwn finding in it a striking proof of the possible effect on 
the imagination, from an Idea violently and suddenly impressed on it. 1 
bad been reading Brjan Edwards's account of the effect of the Oby witch 
craft on the Negroes in the West Indies, and Uearue's deeply interesting 
anecdutea of similar workings on the imagination of tlie Copper Indians 
(thoaa of my readers who have it in their power will be w^l repaid tor the 
trouble of referring to those works for tbe paaaages alluded to) and I con- 
ceived the deaign of showing that iaslancea of this kind are not peculiar to 
aavage or barbarous tribes, ami of illustrating the mode in which tbe mind 
is affected in these oaaea, and the progress and symptoma of the morbid ac- 
tion on tbe boey from the beginning. 

The Tale is aupposed to be narrated by an old Seiton, in a country 
churchyard, to a travuUer whose curiosity had been awakened by the ap- 
pearanoe of three graves, close by each other, to too only of which there 
were gravestones. On tbe first of these was the name, and dates, as usual : 
on the second, no name, but only a date, and the words, " The Heroy of Ood 
is infinite.] lElS 

TsB grapM upon the Vicar's wall 

Were ripe as ripe could be ; 
And yellow leaves in Bun and wind 

Were faUiDg from the tree. 

On the hedge-elina in the narrow lane 

Still swung the spikes of corn : 
Dear Lord ! it svems but j-ealerday — 

Yonng Edward's rjiarriage mom. 

Up through that wood behind the chnroh, 
There leads Irnm Edward's door 


A mossy track, all over boughed, 
For half a mile or more. 

And from their house-door by that track 
The bride and bridegroom went ; 

Sweet Mary, though she was not gay. 
Seemed cheerful and content. 

But when they to the church-yard came, 

I've heard poor Mary say, 
As soon as she stept into the sun, 

Her heart it died away. 

And when the Vicar joined their hands. 
Her limbs did creep and freeze ; 

But when they prayed, she thought she saw 
Her mother on her knees 

And o'er the church- path they returned — 

I saw poor Mary's back, 
Just as she stepped beneath the boughs 

Into the mossy track. 

Her feet upon the mossy track 

The married maiden set : 
That moment — I have heard her say — 

She wished she could forget. 

The shade o'er-flushed her limbs with heat 
Then came a chill like death : 

And when the merry bells rang out. 
They seemed to stop her breath. 

Beneath the foulest mother's curse 

Xo child could ever thrive : 
A mother is a mother still, 

The holiest thing alive. 

So five months passed : the mother still 
Would never heal the strife ; 

But Edward was a loving i.iau, 
And Marv a fond -wife. 


My sister may not visit us. 
My mother says her nay : 

Edward ! you are all to me, 

1 wish for your sake I could be 
More lifesome and more gay. 

" Tm dull and sad ! indeed, indeed 

I know I have no reason I 
Perhaps I am not well in health, 

And 'tis a gloomy season." 

'Twas a drizzly time — no ice, no snow I 

And on the few fine days 
She stirred not out lest she might meet 

Her mother in the ways. 

But Ellen, spite of miry ways 

And weather dark and dreary. 
Trudged every day to Edward's house^ 

And made them all more cheery. 

Oh ! Ellen was a faithful friend. 

More dear than any sister ! 
As cheerful too as singing lark ; 
And she ne'er lefl them till 'twas dark. 

And then they always missed her. 

And now Ash- Wednesday came — that da> 

But few to church repair : 
For on that day you know we read 

The Commination prayer. 

Our late old Vicar, a kind man, 

Once, Sir, he said to me. 
He wished that service was clean out 

Of our good liturgy. 

The mother walked into the church^- 

To Ellen's seat she went : 
Though Ellen always kept her church 

All church days during Lent. 


And gentle Ellen welcomed her 
With courteous looks and mild : 

ThoLght she " what if her heart should luelt 
And all be reconciled !" 

The day was scarcely like a day — 
The clouds were black outright : 

And many a night with half a moon, 
I've seen the church more light. 

The wind was wild ; againit the glass 
The rain did beat and bicker ; 

The church-tower swinging over head. 
You scarce could hear the Vicar ! 

And then and there the mother knelt. 

And audibly she cried — 
' Oh ! may a clinging curse consume 

This woman by my side ! 

hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven, 
Although you take my life — 

curse this woman, at whose house 
Young Edward woo'd his wife. 

By night and day, in bed and bower, 

let her cursed be I' 
So having prayed, steady and slow. 

She rose up from her knee, 
And left the church, nor e'er again 

The church-door entered she. 

1 saw poor Ellen kneeling still, 

So pale, I guessed not why : 
When she stood up, there plainly was 
A trouble in her eve. 


\nd when the prayers were done, we all 
Came round and asked her why ! 

I^iddy she seemed, and sure, there was 
A trouble in her eye. 


But ere she from the church-door stepped 

She smiled and told us why : 
" It was a wicked woman's curse," 

Quoth she, '* and what care I ?'* 

She smiled, and smiled, and passed it off 

Ere from the door she stept — 
But all agree it would have been 

Much better had she wept. 

And if her heart was not at ease, 

This was her constant cry — 
" It was a wicked woman's curse 

God's good, and what care I ?" 

There was a hurry in her looks. 

Her struggles she redoubled : 
*' It was a wicked woman's curse— 

And why should I be troubled ?" 

These tears will come — I dandled her 

When 'twas the merest fairy — 
Good creature ! and she hid it all : 

She told it not to Mary. 

But Mary heard the tale : her armi 

Round Ellen's neck she threw ; 
" Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me. 

And now she hath cursed you !" 

I saw young Edward by himself 

Stalk fast adown the lea, 
He snatched a stick from every fence, 

A twig fn>m every tree. 

He snapped them still with hand or knee, 

And then away they flew I 
^ 3 if with his uneasy limbs 

He knew not what to do ! 

You see, good sir ! that single hill ? 
His farm lies underneath ; 


He heard it there, he heard it all* 
And only gnashed his teeth. 

Now Ellen was a darling love 

In all his joys and cares : 
And Ellen's name and Mary's name 
Fast-linked they hoth together came 

AVhene'er he said his prayers. 

And in the moment of his prayeis 

He loved them hoth alike : 
Yea, hoth sweet names with one swett joy 

Upon his heart did strike ! 

He reached his home, and hy his looks 
They saw his inward strife : 

And they clung round him with their amw 
Both Ellen and his wife. 

And Mary could not check her tears, 
So on his breast she bowed ; 

Then frenzy melted into grief, 
And Edward wept aloud. 

Dear Ellen did not weep at all. 

But closelier did she cling, 
And turned her face and looked as if 

She saw some frightful thing. 

PART rv'. 

To see a man tread over graves 

I hold it no good mark; 
'Tis wicked in the sun and moon, 

And bad luck in the dark ! 

You see that grave ? The Lord he give^ 

The Lord he takes away : 
Sir ! the child of my old age 

Lies there as cold as clay. 


Bxcept that grave, you scarce aee one 

That w&s not dug by me ; 
I'd rather daiice upon 'em all 

Than tread upon these three ' 

"Ay, Sexlon I 'tie a touching tale," 

You, Sir! are but a lad ; 
ThiB month I'm in my seventieth yeu 

And Btill it makes me sad. 

And Hary's sister told it me. 
For three good hours and more ; 

Though I bad heard it, in the main. 
From Edward's self before. 

Well ! it passed 00"! the gentle Ellen 

Did well nigh dote on Mary ; 
And she went oAener than before. 
And Mary loved her more and more ; 

She managed all the dairy. 

To market she on market-days, 

To church on Sundays came ; 
All seemed the same : all seemed so, Sir 1 

But all was not the same ! 

Had Ellen lost her mirth ? Oh ! no ! 

But she was seldom cheerful ; 
And Edward looked aa if he thought 

That Ellen's mirth was fearfu]. 

When by herself, she to herself 

Must sing some merry rhyme ; 
She could not now be glad for hours, 

Yet silent all the time. 

And when she soothed her friend, through all 

Her soothing words 'twas plain 
She had a sore grief of her own, 

A haunting in her brain. 

And oft she said, I'm not grown thin 1 
And then hor wrist she spanned ; 


And ouce when Mary was downcast. 

She took her by the hand, 
And gazed upon her, and at first 

She gently pressed her hand ; 

Then harder, till her grasp at length 
Did gripe like a convulsion I 

.Vlas ! said she, we ne'er can be 
Made happy by compulsion ! 

And once her both arms suddenly 
Round Mary's neck she flung, 

And her heart panted, and she felt 
The words upon her tongue. 

She felt them coming, but no power 
Had she the words to smother ; 

And with a kind of shriek she cried, 
•' Oh Christ ! you're like your mother V 

So penile Ellen now no more 

Could make this sad house cheery ; 

And Mary's melancholy ways 
Drove Edward wild and weary. 

Linjrering he raised his latch at eve, 
Thoujrh tired in heart and limb : 

He loved no other place, and yet 
Home was no home to him. 

One evening he took up a book, 

And nothing in it read ; 
Then Hung it down, and groaning cried, 

•' Oh I Heaven ! that I were dead.*' 

Mary looked up into his face, 

And nothing to him said ; 
She tried to smile, and on his arm 

Mournfully leaned her head. 

\nd he burst into tears, and fell 
Upon his knees in prayer : 


" Her lieart is broke 1 God 1 my giief. 

It ia too great to bear '." 

'Twaa such a foggy time as makes 

Utd sextona, Sir ! like me, 
Rest on their spades to cough ; the apriog 

Was late ud commonly. 

And then the hot days, all at once, 
They came, we knew not how ; 

You looked about tor shade, when scarce 
A leaf was on a bough. 

U happened tben ('twaa in the bower 

A furlong up the wood : 
Perhaps you know the place, and yet 

I Bcacce know how you should, — ^ 

No path leads thither, 'tia not nigh 

To any paslure-jilot ; 
But clustered near the chattering brook. 

Lone hollies marked the spot. 

Those hollies of themselves a shape 

Aa of an arbor took, 
A close, round arbor ; and it standi 

Not three strides from a brook. 

Within this arbor, which was still 

With scarlet berries hung. 
Were these three friends, one Sunday mom 

Just as the first bull rung. 

'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet 

To hear the Sabbath-bell, 
'Tis sweet to hear tliem both at once. 

Deep in a woody dell. 

His limb* along the mam, his b«>d 
Upon a moBsy heap. 


With shut-up senses, Edward lay : 
That brook e'en on a working day 
Might chatter one to sleep. 

And he had passed a restless night, 

And was not well in health ; 
The women sat down by his side, 

AjyI talked as 'twere by stealth. 

" The sun peeps through the close thick leavea. 

See, dearest Ellen ! see ! 
'Tis in the leaves, a little sun, 

No bigger than your ee ; 

" A tiny sun, and it has got 

A perfect glory too ; 
Ten thousand threads and hairs of light. 
Make up a glor}% gay and bright, 

Round that small orb, so blue/' 

And then they argued of those rays, 

What color they might be ; 
Says this, •' they're mostly green ;" says that^ 

*' They're amber-like to me. ' 

So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts 

Were troubling Edward's rest ; 
But soon they heard his hard quick pants, 

And the thumping in his breabt. 

" A mother too I" these self-same words 

Did Edward mutter plain ; 
His face was drawn back on itself, 

With horror and huge pain. 

Both groaned at once, for both knew well 
What thoughts were in his mind ; 

Whfn he waked up, and stared like one 
That had been just struck blind. 

Ue sat upright ; and ere the dream 
Had had time to. depart. 


" God, forgive me ! (be exclaimed) 
I have torn oat her hea.rt." 

Then EUea ihrieked, and forthwith burst 

Into ungentle laughter ; 
And Mary shivend, where she lat, 

And never «he amiled aller. 




Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, 
With the old Moon in her arms ; 
And I fear» I fear, mj Master dear ! 
We shall have a deadly storoL 


Well ! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made 
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence 
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade 
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, 
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes 
Upon the strings of this JEolian lute, 
"Which better far were mute. 
For lo I the New-moon winter-bright I 
And overspread with phantom light, 
(With swimming phantom light overspread 
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) 
^ see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling 

The coming on of rain and squally blast. 
And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling, 

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast ! 
Those sounds which oft have raised mo, whilst they awed. 

And sent my soul abroad, 
Might now, perhaps, their wonted impulse give. 
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live ! 

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, 
A stifled, drowsv. urampassioned grief, 


Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, 
In word, or sigh, or tear — 

Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood, 
To other thoughts hy yonder throstle woo*d, 

All this long eve, so balmy and serene. 
Have I been gazing on the western sky, 

And its peculiar tint of yellow green : 
And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye ! 
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars. 
That give away their motion to the stars ; 
Those stars, that glide behind them or between, 
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen 
Yon crescent Moon as fixed as if it grew 
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; 

1 see them all so excellently fair, 

[ see, not feel how beautiful they are ! 


My genial spirits fail ; 

And what can these avail 
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ? 

It were a vain endeavor, 

Though I should gaze forever 
On that green light that lingers in the west : 
I may not hope from outward forms to win 
The passion and the life, whose fountains are withiii. 


O Lady I we receive but what we give, 

And in our life alone does nature live : 

Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud ! 

And would we aught behold, of higher worth 
Than that inanimate cold world allowed 
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd. 

Ah I from the soul itself must issue forth, 
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 

Enveloping the Earth — 
And from the soul itself must there be sent 

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth. 
Of all tweet sounds the life and element ! 





pure of heart ; thou need'st not ask of mc 
Wliat this strong music in the soul may be ! 
What, and wherein it doth exist, 
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, 
This beautiful and beauty-making power. 

Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne'er was given, 
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour. 
Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower 
Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power 
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, 

A new Earth and new Heaven, 
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud — 
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud — 

We in ourselves rejoice I 
Aiid thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, 

All melodies the echoes of that voice, 
All colors a sufi'usion from that light. 


There was a time when, though my path was rough, 
This joy within me dallied with distress. 
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 

Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness : 
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, 
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. 
But now afflictions bow me do^Ti to earth : 
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth. 

But oh ! each visitation 
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, 

My shaping spirit of Imagination. 
For not to think of what I needs must feel, 

But to be still and patient, all I can ; 
And haply by abstruse research to steal 

From my own nature all the natural man^- 

This was my sole resource, my only plan : 
Till that which suits a part infects the whole, 
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul 



Hence viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, 

Reality's dark dream ! 
I turn from you, and listen to the wind, 

Which long has raved uunoticed. What a scream 
Of agony hy torture lengthened out 
That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that ravest without, 

Bare craig, or mountain-taim,*^ or blasted tree, 
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, 
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, 
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, 
Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of showers, 
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, 
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song. 
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. 

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds I 
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold I 
What tell'st thou now about ? 
'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, 
With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds — 
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold ! 
But hush I there is a pause of deepest silence ! 

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, 
With groans and tremulous shudderings — all is over — 
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud ! 
A tale of less affright. 
And tempered with delight, 
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 
'Tis of a little child. 
Upon a lonesome wild. 
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way : 
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear. 
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. 

• Tairn is a small lake, generally if not always applied to the lakes up 
in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the valleys. This 
address to the Storm-wind will not appear extravagant to (hose who have 
bfisird it at night, and io a mountainous country. 

VOL. VII. [ 



*Ti8 midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep ; 
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! 
Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing. 

And may this storm be but a mountain*birth, 
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, 

Silent as though they watched the sleeping Sarth ! 
With light heart may she rise, 
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, 

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice ; 
To her may all things live, from pole to pole. 
Their life the eddying of her living soul ! 

simple spirit, guided from above. 
Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of my choice. 
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice. 



" And bail the chapel I hail the platform wild 

AVliere Tell directed the avenging dart. 
With well-strung arm. that first preserved his child, 

Then aimed the arrow at the tyrant's heart.** 

{Splendor's fondly fostered child ! 
And did you hail the platform wild. 

Where once the Austrian fell 

Beneath the shaft of Tell I 
Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 
Whence learn'd you that heroic measure ? 

Light as a dream your days their circlets ran. 
From all that teaches brotherhood to Man 
Far, far removed ! from want, from hope, from fear ! 
Enchanting music lulled your infant ear, 
Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart : 

Emblazonments and old ancestral crests, 
With many a bright obtrusive form of art; 

Detained your eye from nature : stately vests. 


That veiling strove to deck your charms diviue, 
Rich viands and the pleasurable wine, 
Were yours unearned by toil ; nor could you see 
The unenjoying toiler's misery. 
And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child, 
You hailed the chapel and the platform wild. 
Where once the Austrian i'ell 
Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 

Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 

Whence learn'd you that heroic measure ? 

There crowd your finely fibred frame, 

All living faculties of bliss ; 
And Genius to your cradle came, 
His forehead wreathed with lambent flame, 
And bending low, with godlike kiss 
Breath'd in a more celestial life ; 
But boasts not many a fair compeer, 

A heart as sensitive to joy and fear ? 
And some, perchance, might wage an equal strifu, 
Some few, to nobler being wrought, 
Corrivals in the nobler gift of thought. 
Yet these delight to celebrate 
Laurelled war and plumy state ; 
Or in verse and music dress 
Tales of rustic happiness — 
Pernicious tales ! insidious strains ! 
That steel the rich man's breast, 
And mock the lot un blest. 
The sordid vices and the abject pains, 
Which evermore must be 
The doom of ignorance and penury I 
But you, free Nature's uncorrupted child. 
You hailed the chapel and the platform wild, 
Where once the Austrian fell 
Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 
Whence leam'd you that heroic measure ? 

You wore a mother ! That most holy name, 
Which Heaven and Nature bless. 


I may not vilely prostitute to those 

Whose infants owe them less 
Than the poor caterpillar owes 
Its gaudy parent fly. 
You were a mother ! at your bosom fed 

The babes that loved you. You, with laughing; eye, 
Each twilight thought, each nascent feeling read, 
Which you yourself created. Oh I delight * 
A second time to be a mother, 

Without the mother's bitter groans : 
Another thought, and yet another. 
By touch or taste, by looks or tones 
0*er the growing sense to roll, 
The mother of your infant's soul ! 
The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides 

His chariot-planet round the goal of day, 
All trembling gazes on the eye of God, 

A moment turned his awful face away ; 
And as he viewed you, from his aspect sweet 

New influences in your being rose, 
Blest intuitions and communions fleet, 

With living Nature, in her joys and woes ! 
Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see 
The shrine of social Liberty I 
beautiful ! Nature's child ! 
'Twas thence you hailed the platform wild. 
Where once the Austrian fell 
Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure I 
Thence learn'd you that heroic measure. 


Tranquillity I thou better name 
Than all the family of Fame ! 
Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age 
To low intrigue, or factious rage ; 
For oh 1 dear child of thoughtful Truth* 
To thee I gave my early youth, 


And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore. 

Ere yet the tempest rose, and scared me with its roar. 

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, 

On him but seldom. Power divine, 

Ihy spirit rests ! Satiety 

And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, 

Mock the tired worldling. Idle hope 

And dire remembrance interlope. 
To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind : 
The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. 

But me thy gentle hand will lead 

At morning through the accustomed mead : 

And in the sultry summer's heat 

Will build me up a mossy seat ; 

And when the gust of Autumn crowds, 

And breaks the busy moonlight clouds. 
Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, 
Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon. 

The feeling heart, the searching soul. 

To thee I dedicate the whole ! 

And while within myself I trace 

The greatness of some future race, 

Aloof with hermit-eye I scan 

The present works of present man — 
A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile. 
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile ! 




A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep. 

But a green mountain variously up-piled, 
Where o*er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep. 
Or colored lichens with slow oozing weep ; 

Where cypress and the darker yew start wild ; 
And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash 
Dance brightened the red <:lu8tcrs of the ash ; 


Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds btsguiled* 
Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep ; 

Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, 
That rustling on the bushy cliff above, 
With melancholy bleat of anxious love, 

Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb : 

Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb, 
£Vn while the bosom ached with loneliness — 
How more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless 

The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime 
Now lead, now follow : the glad landscape round 
AVide and more wide, increasing without bound ! 

then Hwere loveliest sympathy, to mark 
The berries of the half-uprooted ash 
Dripping and bright ; and list the torrent's dash, — 

Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark. 
Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock ; 
In social silence now, and now to unlock 
The treasured heart ; arm linked in friendly arm, 
Save if the one, his muse's witching charm 
Muttering brow-bent, at unwatched distance lag; 

Till high o'er head his beckoning friend appears 
And from the forehead of the topmost crag 

Shouts eagerly : for haply there uprears 
That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs. 

Which latest shall detain the enamored sight 
Seen from below, when eve the valley dims. 

Tinged yellow with the rich departing light ; 

And haply, basoned in some unsunned cleft, 
A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, 
Sleeps sheltered there, scarce wrinkled by the gale! 

Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left. 
Stretched on the crag, and shadowed by the pine. 

And bending o'er the clear delicious fount. 
Ah I dearest youth I it were a lot divine 
To cheat our noons in moralizing mood. 
While west-winds fanned our temples toil-bedewed : 

Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount. 
To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, 


Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss 
Gives this the husband's, that the brother's kiss 1 

Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore, 
The Hill of Knowledge I essayed to trace ; 
That verdurous hill with many a resting-place. 
And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour 

To glad and fertilize the subject plains ; 
That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod, 
And many a fancy-blest and holy sod 

Where Inspiration, his diviner strains 
Low murmuring, lay ; and starting from the rocks 
Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks 
Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, 
And bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage ! 
meek retiring spirit ! we will climb, 
Cheering and cheered, this lovely hill sublime ; 

And from the stirring world up-lifled high, 
(Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind. 
To quiet musings shall attune the mind, - 

And oil the melancholy theme supply) 

There, while the prospect through the gazing eye 

Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul, 
We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame. 
Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same, 

As neighboring fountains image, each the whole : 
Then when the mind bath drunk its fill of truth ^ 

We'll discipline the heart to pure delight. 
Rekindling sober joy's domestic fiame. 
They whom I love shall love thee, honored youth ! 

Now may Heaven realize this vision bright ! 



While my young cheek retains its healthful hues, 
And I have many friends who hold me dear ; 
L ! methinks, I would not oflen hear 

Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose 


All memory of the wrongs and sore distross^ 

For which my miserable brethren weep ! 

But should uncomforted misfortunes steep 
My daily bread in tears and bitterness ; 
And if at death's dread moment I should lie 

With no beloved face at my bed-side, 
To fix the last glance of my closing eye, 

Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-guidc, 
Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, 

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died ! 




Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe, 

Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear ! 
To plundered want's half-sheltered hovel go, 

Go, and some hunger-bitten infant hear 

Moan haply in a dying mother's ear : 
Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood 
O'er the rank church-yard with sere elm-leaves strewed. 
Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part 

Was slaughtered, where o'er his uncoffined limbs 
The flocking flesh-birds screamed I Then, while thy heart 

Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims. 
Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) 
What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal ! 

abject 1 if, to sickly dreams resigned, 
All eflbrtless thou leave life's common- weal 

A prey to tyrants, murderers of mankind. 


Dear native brook ! wild streamlet of the West I 
How many various-fated years have past, 
Wliat happy, and what mournful hours, since last 
1 skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast. 
Numbering its light leaps ! yet so deep imprest 


Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes 

I never shut amid the sunny ray, 
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise. 

Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows gray, 
And hedded sand that, veined with various dyes, 
Gleamed through thy bright transparence ! On my way, 

Visions of childhood I oft have ye beguiled 
Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs 

Ah ! that once more I were a careless child ! 



Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll 

Which makes the present (while the flash doth last) 
Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past 

Mixed with such feelings, as perplex the soul 

Self-questioned in her sleep ; and some have said 
We lived, ere yet this robe of flesh we wore. 
my sweet baby ! when I reach my door, 

If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead, 

(As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear) 

I think that I should struggle to believe 
Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere 

Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve ; 

Did'st scream, then spring to meet Heaven s quick reprieve, 

While we wept idly o'er thy little bier ! 




Charles ! my slow heart was only sad, when first 

I scanned that face of feeble infancy : 
For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst 

All I had been, and all my child might be ! 

• 'Hv nov iffiuv ij ^vxv nptv Iv rt^Se r^ uv^pomvot elSei yevitrdtu, — Plai 
in Phadon, 



But when I saw it on its mother's ann, 
And hanging at her bosom (she the while 
Bent o*er its features with a tearful smile) 

Then I was thrilled and melted, and most warm 

Impressed a father's kiss : and all beguiled 
Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, 
I seemed to see an angel-form appear — 

'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild ! 
So for the mother*s sake the child was dear. 

And dearer was the mother for the child. 




DoEMi, Jesu ! Mater ridet 
dua) tarn dulcem somnum videt, 

Dormi, Jesu ! bland ule ! 
Si lion dormis, Mater plorat, 
Inter fila cantans orat, 

Blande, veni, somnule. 


Sleep, sweet babe ! my cares beguiling : 
Mother sits beside thee smiling ; 

Sleep, my darling, tenderly I 
If thou sleep not, mother mourneth, 
Singing as her wheel she turneth : 

Come, soft slumber, balmily I 


Its balmy lips the infant blest 
Relaxing from its mother's breast, 
How sweet it heaves the happy sigh 
Of innocent satiety ! 

And such my infant's latest sigh ! 
tell, rude stone ! the passer-by. 
That here the pretty babe doth lie, 
Death sang to sleep with Lullaby. 




Stretch' D on a mouldered Abbey's broadest wall, 

Where ruining ivies propped the ruins steep — 
Her folded arms wrapping her tattered pall, 

Had melancholy mus'd herself to sleep. 

The fern was pressed beneath her hair, 

The dark green adder's tongue was there ; 
And still as past the flagging sea-gale weak, 
The long lank leaf bowed fluttering o'er her check. 

That pallid cheek was flushed : her eager look 
Beamed eloquent in slumber ! Inly wrought. 

Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook, 
And her bent forehead worked with troubled thought. 
Strange was the dream 



BIark this holy chapel well ! 
The birth-place, this, of William Tell 
Here, where stands God's altar dread, 
Stood his parents' marriage-bed. 


Here, first, an infant to her breast, 
Him his loving mother prest ; 
And kissed the babe, and blessed the day, 
And prayed as mothers used to pray. 


*' Vouchsafe him health, God ! and give 
The child thy servant still to live I" 
But God had destined to do more 
Through him, than through an armed power. 



God gave him reverence of laws, 

Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause— 

A spirit to his rocks akin, 

The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein I 

To Nature and to Holy Writ 
Alone did God the boy commit : 
Where flashed and roared the torrent, oft 
His soul found winga, and soared aloft ! 


The straining oar and chamois chase 
Had formed his limbs to strength and grace 
On wave and wind the boy would toss. 
Was great, nor knew how great he was ! 


He knew not that his chosen hand, 
Made strong by God, his native land 
Would rescue from the shameful yoke 
Of Slavery — the which he broke I 



The shepherds went their hasty way. 

And found the lowly stable-shed 
Where the Virgin-Mother lay : 

And now they checked their eager tread. 
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung. 
A mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung. 


They told her how a glorious light, 
Streaming from a heavenly throng, 

Around them shone, suspending night I 
While sweeter than a mother's long, 

sibylline: leaves. 206 

Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's hirth, 
Glory to God on high ! and Peace on Earth. 


She listened to the tale divine, 

And closer still the Babe she prest ; 
And while she cried, the Babe io mine ! 
The milk rushed i'astcr to her breast : 
Joy rose within her, like a summcr^s morn ; 
Peace, Peace on earth ! the Prince of Peace is bon 


Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, 

Poor, simple, and of low estate ! 
That strife should vanish, battle cease, 
why should this thy soul elate ? 
Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story, 

Did'st thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory ? 


And is not war a youthful king, 
A stately hero clad in mail ? 
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring ; 
Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail 
Their friend, their playmate ! and his bold I right eye 
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. 


" Tell this in some more courtly scene. 

To maids and youths in robes of state ! 
I am a woman poor and mean, 
And therefore is my soul elate. 
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled. 
That from the aged father tears his child ! 


" A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, 
He kills the sire and starves the son ; 

The husband kills, and from her board 
Steals all his widow's toil had won ; 


Plunders 6od*8 world of beauty ; rends away 

All safety from the uight, all comfort from the day. 


'* Then wisely is my soul elate, 

That strife should vanish, battle cease : 
Tm poor and of a low estate, 

The Mother of the Prince of Peace. 
Joy rises in me, like a summer's mom : 
Peace, Peace on Earth ! the Prince of Peace is bom.* 



[f dead, we cease to be ; if total gloom 

Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare 
A.S summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom. 

Whose sound and motion not alone declare. 
But are their whole of being ! If the breath 

Be life itself, and not its task and tent, 
If even a soul like Milton's can know death ; 

Man ! thou vessel purposeless, unmeant, 
Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes ! 

Surplus of nature's dread activity. 
Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finished vase 
Retreating slow, with meditative pause, 

She formed with restless hands unconsciously ! 
Blank accident ! nothing^s anomaly ! 

If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state, 
Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy fears, 
The counter-weights ! — Thy laughter and thy tears 

Mean but themselves, each fittest to create, 
And to repay the other ! Why rejoices 

Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good ? 

Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood, 
Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices. 

Image of image, ghost of ghostly elf, 
That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold ? 
Yet what and whence thy gain, if thou withhold 


These costly shadows of thy shadowy self ? 
Be sad ! he glad ! he neither ! seek, or shun ! 
Thou hast no reason why ! Thou can^st have none ; 
Thy heing's heing is contradiction. 


— They shrink in, as Moles 
(Nature's mute monks, live mandrakes of the gi-ound^ 
Creep back from Light — theu listen for its sound ; — 
See but to dread, and dread they know not why — 
The natural alien of their negative eye. 



Never, believe me, 
Appear the Immortals, 
Never alone : 
Scarce had I welcomed the sorrow-beguiler, 
lacchus ! but in came boy Cupid the smiler ; 
Lo ! Phoebus the glorious descends from his throne ! 
They advance, they float in, the Olympians all I 
With divinities fills my 
Terrestrial hall ! 

How shall I yield you 
Due entertainment. 
Celestial quire ? 
Me rather, bright guests ! with your wings of up-buoyanoa 
Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance, 
That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre ! 
Uah ! we mount ! on their pinions they wall up my soul ! 
give me the nectar I 
fill me the bowl ! 
Give him the nectar ! 
Pour out for the poet, 
Hebe I pour free ! 


duicken his eyes with celestial dew, • 
That Styx the detested no more he may view. 
And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be i 
Thanks, Hebe ! I quafi'it ! lo Psean, I cry ! 
The wine of the Immortals 
Forbids me to die ! 



Near the lone pile with ivy overspread, 

Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound, 

Where " sleeps the moonlight" on yon verdant bed — 
humbly press that consecrated ground ! 

For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain ! 

And there his spirit most delights to rove : 
Young Edmund ! famed for each harmonious strain, 

And the sore wounds of ill-requited love. 

Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide, 
And loads the west-wind with its soft perfume. 

His manhood blossomed : till the faithless pride 
Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb. 

But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue ! 

Where'er with wildered step she wandered pale. 
Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view, 

Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale. 

With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms. 

Amid the pomp of affluence she pined ; 
Nor all that lured her faith from Edmund's arms 

Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind. 

Go, Traveller I tell the tale with sorrow fraught : 
Some tearful maid perchance, or blooming youth, 

May hold it in remembrance ; and be taught 
That riches can not pay for Love or Truth. 



k swoRDED man wfaoee trade is blood, 
In grief, in anger, and in fear, 

Thro' jungle, swamp, and torrent flood, 
I aeek the wealth you hold so dear ! 

The dazzling charm of outward form. 
The power of gold the pride of birth. 

Have taken Woman's heart by etorm-'— 
Usurped the place of inward worth. 

Is not true Love of higher price 
Than outward Form, tho' fair to see. 

Wealth's glittering fairy-dome of ice. 
Or echo of proud ancestry ? — 

O ! Asra, Aara ! couldst thou see 
Into the bottom of my heart. 

There's such a mine of Love for the«. 
As almost might supply desert ! 

(This separation is, alas ! 

Too great a punishment to be«r ; 
! take my life, or let me pass 

That life, that happy life, with her !) 

The perils, erst with steadfast eye 
EncouQter'd, now I shrink to see — 

Ob ! I have heart enough to die — 
Not half enough to part from Thee ! 


To know, to esteem, to love — and then to part. 

Hakes up life's tale to many a feeling heart ! 

for some dear abiding- place of Love, 

O'er which my spirit, like tho mother dove. 

Might brood with warming wings I — fair as kind. 

Were but one Hiaterhood with you combined, 

(Your very image they in shape and miod) 


Far rather would I sit in solitude, 

The forms of memory all my mental food. 

And dream of you, sweet sisters, (ah, not mine !) 

And only dream of you (ah dream and pine !) 

Than have the presence, and partake the pride, 

And shine in the eye of all the world beside ! 




He too has flitted from his secret nest, 
Hope's last and dearest Child without a name !* 
Has flitted from me, like the warmthleas flame, 
That makes false promise of a place of rest 
To the tir'd Pilgrim's still believing mind ; — 
Or like some Elfin Knight in kingly court, 
Who having won all guerdons in his sport. 
Glides out of view, and whither none can find I 


Yes I He hath flitted from me — with what aim, 
Or why, I know not ! 'Twas a home of bliss, 
And He was innocent, as the pretty shame 
Of babe, that tempts and shuns the menaced kisa, 
From its twy-cluster'd hiding-place of snow I 
Pure as the babe, I ween, and all aglow 
As the dear hopes, that swell the mother's breast— 
Her eyes down gazing o'er her clasped charge ;— ^ 
Yet gay as that twice happy father's kiss, 
That well might glance aside, yet never miss. 
Where the sweet mark emboss'd so sweet a targe — 
Twice wretched he who hath been doubly blest ! 


Like a loose blossom on a gusty night 
He flitted from me — and has left behind 
(As if to them his faith he ne'er did plight) 
Of either sex and answerable mind 

sibyllii^e: leaves. 211 

Two playmates, twin-births of his foster-dame :•— • 
The one a steady lad (Esteem he hight) 
And Kindness is the gentler sister's name. 
Dim likeness now, tho' fair she be and good 
Of that bright Boy who hath us all forsook ; — 
But in his full-eyed aspect when she stood, 
And while her face reflected every look, 
And in reflection kindled — she became 
So like Him, that almost she seem'd the same ! 


Ah ! He is gone, and yet will not depart ! — 
Is with me still, yet I from Him exil'd ! 
For still there lives within my secret heart 
The magic image of the magic Child, 
Which there He made up-grow by his strong art 
As in that crystal* orb— wise Merlin's feat, — 
The wondrous "World of Glass," wherein inisUd 
All long*d for things their beings did repeat ; — 
And there he leil it, like a Sylph beguiled. 
To live and yearn and languish incomplete ! 


Can wit of man a heavier grief reveal ? 

Can sharper pang from hate or scorn arise ? — 

Yes ! one more sharp there is that deeper lies. 

Which fond Esteem but mocks when he would heal 

Yet neither scorn nor hate did it devise, 

But sad compassion and atoning zeal ! 

One pang more bligh ting-keen than hope betray 'd ! 

And this it is my woful hap to feel, 

When at her Brother's best, the twin-born Maid 

With face averted and unsteady eyes, . 

Her truant playmate's faded robe puts on ; 

And inly shrinking from her own disguise 

Enacts the faery Boy that's lost and gone. 

worse than all ! pang all pangs above 

Is Kindness counterfeiting absent Love ! 

* Faerie Queene, h. iii. o. ii. b. 19. 




In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, thee ia ill health, had re- 
tired to a lonely farm-house between Porlock and Liutou, on the Exmoor 
confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In consequence of a slight indisposi- 
tion, an anodyne had been prescribed, from the effect of which he fell 
asleep in his chair at the moment that he was reading the following sen- 
tence, or words of the same substance, in " Purchas's Hlgrimage f ** Here 
the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately garden there- 
unto : and thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed with a walL** The 
author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the 
external senses, during which time he has the most vivid confidence, that he 
could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines ; if that 
indeed can be calVed composition in which all the images rose up before him 
as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent expressions, with- 
out any sensation or consciousness of effort. On awaking he appeared to 
himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, 
and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here pre- 
served. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on 
business from Porlock, and detained by him above an liour, and on his re- 
turn to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that 
though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general 
purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scat- 
tered lines and images, all the rest bad passed away like tbe images on the 
surface of a stream into which a stone had been cast, but, alas 1 without the 
after restoration of the latter : 

Then all the charm 
I« broken— all that phantom- world so fair 
Vaniflhea, and a thousand circlets spread, 
And each mis-sbnpo the other. Stay awhile, 
Poor youth ! who scarcely dar^st lift up thine eyee — 
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, toon 
The visions will return ! And lo ! he stays. 
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more 
The pool becomes a miiror. 

Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the Author has fre- 
quently purposed to finish for himself what had been originally, as it were, 
given to him. Avptov udiov uau : but the to-morrow is yet to come. 

As a contract to this vision, I have annexed a fragment of a very differ- 
ent character, describing with equal fidelity the dream of pain and disease 


In Xanadu did Kubla Kiian 
A stately pleasure-dome decree : 


Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man 

Down to a sunless sea. 
So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round : 
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills 
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover I 

A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 

By woman wailing for her demon-lover I 

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, 

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 

A mighty fountain momently was forced : 

Amid whose swifl half-intermitted burst 

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : 

And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 

It flung up momently the sacred river. 

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 

Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 

Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 

Floated midway on the waves ; 

Where was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device, 
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ioe I 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once 1 saw : 

It was an Abyssinian maid, 

And on her dulcimer she played, 


Singing of Mount Abora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song, 

To such a deep delight 'twould win me 
That with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air, 
That sunny dome ! those eaves of ice ! 
And all who heard should see them there 
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware ! 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 
Weave a circle round him thrice, 
And close your eyes with holy dread. 
For he on honey-dew hath fed, 
And drunk the milk of Paradise. 


Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, 

It hath not been my use to pray 

With moving lips or bended knees ; 

But silently, by slow degrees, 

My spirit 1 to Love compose, 

In humble trust mine eyelids close, 

With reverential resignation, 

No wish conceived, no thought exprest 

Only a sense of supplication ; 

A sense o'er all my soul imprest 

That I am weak, vet not unblest. 

Since in me, round me, everywhere 

Eternal strength and wisdom are. 

But yester-niglit I prayed aloud 

In anguish and in agony. 

Up-starting from the fiendish crowd 

Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me 

A lurid light, a trampling throng, 

Sense of intolerable wrong, 

And whom I scorned, those only strong 

Thirst of revenge, the powerless will 

Still baflied, and yet burning still ! 


Desire with loathing strangely mixed 
On wild or hateful objects fixed. 
Fantastic passions ! maddening brawl ; 
And shame and terror over all ! 
Deeds to he hid which were not hid, 
Which all confused I could not know. 
Whether I sufiered, or I did : 
For all seemed guilt, remorse or woo, 
My own or others still the same 
f Life-stifiing fear, soul-stifling shame. 

So two nights passed : the night's dismay 
Saddened and stunned the coming day. 
Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me 
Distemper's worst calamity. 
The third night, when my own loud scream 
Had waked mo from the fiendish dream, 
O'ercome with sufi^erings strange and wild, 
I wept as I had been a child ; 
And having thus by tears subdued 
My anguish to a milder mood, 
Such punishments, 1 said, were due 
To natures deepliest stained with sin, — 
For aye entempesting anew 
The unfathomable hell within 
The horror of their deeds to view, 
* To know and loathe, yet wish and do I 
Such griefs with such men well agree. 
But wherefore, wherefore fall on me ? 
To be beloved is all I need. 
And whom I love, I love indeed. 


*Tis a strange place, this Limbo ! — not a Place, 
Yet name it so ; — where Time and weary Space 
Fettered from flight, with night-mare sense of fleeing, 
Strive for their last crepuscular half-being , — 
Lank Space, and scytheless Time with branny hands 
Barren and soundless as the measuring sands. 


Not inark'd by flit of Shades, — uameaning^ thev 

AS moonlight on the dial of the day ! 

But that is lovely — looks like human Time, — 

An old man with a steady look sublime. 

That stops his earthly task to watch the skies ; 

But he is blind — a statue hath such eyes ; — 

Yet having moon ward turn'd his face by chance, 

Gazes the orb with moon-like countenance. 

With scant white hairs, with foretop bald and high^ 

He gazes still, — his eyeless face all eye ; — 

As 'twere an organ full of silent sight, 

His whole face seemeth to rejoice in light I — 

Lip touching lip, all moveless, bust and limb — 

He seems to gaze at that which seems to gaze on him ! 

No such sweet sights doth Limbo den immure, 
Waird round, and made a spirit-jail secure. 
By the mere horror of blank Naught-at-all, 
Whose circurnambience doth these ghosts enthrall. 
A lurid thought is growthless, dull Privation, 
Yet that is but a Purgatory curse ; 
Hell knows a i'ear far worse, 
A fear — a future state ; — *tis positive Negation ! 


Sole Positive of Night I 
Antipathist of Light I 
Fate's only essence I primal scorpion rod — 
The one permitted opposite of God I — 
Condensed blackness and abpmal storm 
Compacted to one sceptre 
Arms the Grasp enorm — 
The Intercepter — 
The Substance that still casts the shadow Death I — 
The Dragon foul and fell — 
The unrevealable. 
And hidden one, whose breath 
Gives wind and fuel to the fires of Hell ! — 
Ah ! sole despair 
Of both th' eternities in Heaven I 


Sole interdict of all-bedewing prayer, 

The all-compassionate ! 

Save to the Lampads Seven 

Reveal'd to none of all th' Angelic State, 
Save to the Lampads Seven, 
That watch the throne of Heaven I 



At the house of a gentleman, who, by the principles aod corresponding 
Tirtues of a sincere Christian, consecrates a cultivated genius and the fiivora- 
ble accidents of birth, opulence, and splendid connections, it was my good 
fortune to meet, in a dinner-party, with more men of celebrity in science or 
polite literature, than are commouly found collected round the same table. 
In the course of eonversation, one of the purty reminded an illustrious poet, 
then present, of some verses which be tiad recited that morning, and which 
had appeared in a newspaper under the name of a War-Eclogue, in which 
Fire, Famine, and Slaughter were introduced as the speakers. The gentle- 
man so addressed replied, that he was ratlier surprised that none of us 
should have noticed or heard of tlie poem, as it had been, at the time, a good 
deal talked of in Scotland. It may be easily supposed, that my feelings 
were at this moment not of the most comfortable kind. Of all present, one 
only knew, or suspected me to be the author ; a man who would have es- 
tablished liimself in the first rank of England's living poets, if the Genius 
of our country had not decreed that he should rather be the first in the first 
rank of its philosophers and scientific benefactors. It appeared the general 
wish to hear the lines. As my friend chose to remain silent, I chose to 
follow his example, and Mr. ♦*»•* recited the poem. This he could do with 
the better grace, being known to have ever been not only a firm and active 
Anti-Jacobin and Anti-Gallican, but likewise a zealous admirer of Mr. Pitt, 
both as a good man and a great statesman. As a poet exclusively, he had 
been amuse<l with the Eclogue; as a poet he recited it; and in a spirit, 
which made it evident, that he would have read and repeated it with the 
same pleasure, had his own name been attached to the imaginary object or 

After the recitation, our amiable host observed, that in his opinion Mr. 
••••• had overrated the merits of the poetry ; but had they been tenfold 
greater, they could not have compensated for that malignity of heart, which 
eould alone have prompted sentiments so atrocious. I perceived that my 
illustrious friend became greatly distressed on my account : but fortunately 
I was able to preserve fortitude and presence of mind enough to take up 
the subject without exciting even a suspicion how nearly and painfully ii 
bteretted me. 

* i^« pa<« 173. 

vor.. VI F. K 


What follows, is the subetaoee of what I then replied, bat dilated and in 
language less colloquiaL It was not my inteotiou, I said, to justify the 
publication, whatever its author's feelings might have been at the time of 
composing it That they are calculated to call forth so severe a reprobatioa 
from a good man, is not the worst feature of such poems. Their moral de- 
formity is aggravated in proportion to the pleasure which they are capable 
of affording to vindictive, turbulent^ and unprincipled readers. Could it 
be supposed, though for a moment, that the author seriously wished wliat 
he had thus wildly imagined, even the attempt to palliate an inhumanity s«) 
monstrous would be an insult to the hearers. But it seemed to me worthy 
of consideration, whether the mood of mind, and the general state of sen- 
sations, in which a poet produces such vivid and fantastic images, is likely 
to co-exist, or is even compatible with, that gloomy and deliberate ferocity 
which a serious wish to realise them would pre-suppose. It had been often 
observed, and all my experience tended to confirm the observation, that pros- 
pects of pain and evil to others, and in general, all deep feelings of revenge, 
are commonly expressed in a few words, ironically tame, and mild. Ilie 
mind imder so direful and fiend-like an influence seems to take a morbid 
pleasure in contrasting the intensity of its wishes and feelings, with the 
slightness or levity of the expressions by which they are hinted; and 
indeed feelings so intense and solitary, if they were not precluded (as in 
almost all coses they would be) by a coustitutional activity of fancy and 
association, and by the specitic joyousness combined with it, would assuredly 
themselves preclude such activity. Patssion. in its own quality, is the au- 
tagouist of action ; though in an ordinary and natural degree the former 
alternates with the latter, and thereby revives and strengthens it. But the 
more intense and insane the passion is, the fewer and the more fixed are the 
correspondent forms and notions. A routiKl hatred, an inveterate thirst of 
revenge, is a sort of madness, and still eddies round its favorite object, and 
exercises a& it were a perpetual tautology' of mind in thoughts and words, 
which admit of no adequate substiti^ei*. Like a fish in a globe of gloss, it 
moves restlessly round and round the scanty circumference, which it can 
not leave without lining its vital element. 

There is a second character of such imaginary representations as spring 
from a real and earnest desire of evil to another, which we often sec in real 
Ufe. and might even anticipate from the nature of the mind. The images, I 
mean, that a vindictive man places before his imagination, will most often 
be taken from the realities of life: they will be images of pain and suiFeriug 
which he has himself seen inflicted on other men, and which he can fancy 
himself as inflicting on the object of his luitred. I will suppose that we 
had heard at dilfercnt times two oonimon sailors, eneh speaking of someone 
who had wrongi*d or otfended him : that the flrbt with apparent violence 
liad devoted every part of his adversary's l>Kly and soul to all th« horrid 
phiwtoms and fantastic places that ever Queveilo dreamt of, and this in a 
**apid flow of those outrageous and wildly combined execrations, which too 
oA«n with our lower classes serve for escape-valves to carry off the excess 
nf their passions, as so much superfluous steam that would endange.* tha 


*ca*el if it were retuned. The other oo the oootraiy, with Uuit tort at 
ealniDeu of tone which ia to the ear what the paleness of anger is to the eye, 
■hall limpl; aay. " If I chanee to be made boatawala. la I hope 1 aooo aball, 
and can but ouce get Ibat fellow under my hand (and I ihall be npon the 
wat«h for him), I'll tickle hia pretty skint I won't hurt html oh not HI 

Doly cut the to the liver !' I dare appeal [o all present, which of the 

two they would regard as the least deceptive symptom of deliberate mi^ 
ligoity t nay. whether it would surprise tliem to see tbe first fellow, an 
hour or two afterwards, cordially abakiDg hBodg with tbe very mim, th* 
fracltoDal parts of whose body aud soul ha had been so cbarit)U>ly disposing 
of; or eTCD perhaps risking bis life for him. What language Sbskspeare 
oonsidered charaeteristic of malignant disposiliun, we see in the speech of 
the good-natured Oratiano, who spoke "aa infinite dealofnotbing more Hun 
any mail in all Venice;" 

— >■ Too wild, too rude sinibold of Tolcol" 
the skipping spirit, whoso thoughts and words reriprocolly rnn away with 
each other ; 

"Oba Ihou dsmn'd, iDMunble dog I 

And for Ui; Ilia l» juMiee ba usiu«d r 

and the wild fanaes that follow, contrasted with Sbytook's tranquil " 1 
stand here for Law." 

Or, to take a case more analogous to the present subject, should we Itnld 
it either fur or charitable to believe it lo have been Dante's serious wish, 
that all tbe persons mentioned by biiu (many recently departed, aud soma 
even alive at the lime), should actually sulTer the fantastic and horrible 
puoiihments, to which be has sentenced them in his Hell aud Purgatory t 
Or what shall we say of the passages iu which Biohop Jeremy Taylor an- 
ticipates the state of those who, Ticious thcinselvcB. have been the cause 
of vice and misery to their rellow-crenturca. Could we endure for 3 uiD- 
Iiieot to think that a spirit, like Bishop Taylor's, burning with Clirietiao 
love; that a man constitution ally overfiowing with picnsursble kindliness; 
wbo scarcely oven in a casual illustration iatroducea the image of woman, 
child, or bird, but he embalms tbe thought with to rich a tenderness, as 
makes the very words seem beauties and fragments of poetry from Eu- 
ripides or Simonidei ; — can we endure tn think, that n man so naturnl and 
■o disdplined, did at tbe time of composing this horrible picture, attai^ a 
sober feeling of reality to the phrases i or that he would have described in 
the same tone of Justification, in the same luxuriant flow of phrases, the 
tortures about to be inflicted on a living individual by a verdict of tbe Star* 
Chamber t or the still more atrocious sentences eieeuted on tbe Scotcli nnti- 
prelatisU and schismatics, at the command, and in some iostasces under the 
very eye of the Duke of Ijiuderdale, and of that wretched bigot wbo after- 
wards dishonored and fnrfcited the throne of Qreat Britain! Or do we nut 
rather feel and understand, that these violent words were mere bubbles, 
flashes and electrical apparitions, from tbe magio cauldron of a fervid and 
cbuUient tiucy, oonstautlv fuelled by aa unexampled upulence of Ituiguoga 


Wore I now to have read by myself for the first time the poem In que»- 
tion, my oonclusioD, I fully believe, would be, that the writer most 1uit« 
oeen some man of warm*feelings and active fancy ; that he had painted to 
himself the circumstances that accompany war in so many vivid and yet fiui* 
tastic forms, as proved that neither the images nor the feelings were the 
result of observation, or in any way derived from realities. I should judge, 
that they were the product of his own seething imagination, and therefore 
impregnated with that pleasurable exultation which is experienced in all 
energetic exertion of intellectual power ; that in the same mood he had 
generalised the causes of the war, and then personified the abstract and 
cliristened it by the name which he had been accustomed to hear most oftec 
associated with its management and measures. I should guess that the 
minister was in the author's mind at the moment of composition as com- 
pletely dna^fj^f uvaifioaapKo^y as Anacreon's grasshopper, and that he had 
as little notion of a real person of flesh and blood, 

** Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb,** 

as Milton had in the grim and terrible phantoms (half person, half allegory) 
which he lias placed at the gates of HelL 1 concluded by observing, that 
the poem was not calculated to excite passion in any mind, or to make any 
impression except on poetic readers : and that from the culpable levity, 
betrayed at the close of the eclogue by the grotesque union of epigram 
matic wit with allegoric personification, in the allusion to the most fearful 
of thoughts, I should conjecture that the " rantin* Bardie," instead of really 
believing, much less wishing, the fate spoken of in the last line, in applica- 
tion to any human individual, would shrink from passing the verdict evec 
on the Devil himself, and exclaim with poor Burns, 

But fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
Oh ! wad ye talc a thought an' men ! 
Ye aiblins might— i dinna ken— 

Still hae a stake— 
I*m wae to think upon you dim, 

Ev'n for your sake ! 

I need not say that these thoughts, which are here dihited, were in such a 
company only rapidly su^ested. Our kind host smiled, and with a courteous 
compliment observed, that the defence was too good for the cause. My voice 
faltered a hltle, for I was somewhat agitated ; though not so much on my 
own account as for the uneasiness that so kind and friendiv a man would 
feel from the thought that he had been the occasion of distressing me. At 
length I brouj^lit out these words; " I must now confej«s, Sir ! that I am 
author of that poem. It was written s<inie years ago. I do not attempt to 
justify my past self, young as I then was ; but as little as I would now 
write a similar poem, so far was I even then from imagining, that the lines 
would be taken as more or less than a sport of fancy. At all events, if 1 
know my own heart, there was never a moment in my existence in which 
I ftho«dd have been more ready, had Mr. Pitt's person been in hazard, to in 
terpo%e my own body, and defend his life at the risk of my own " 


T have prefaced the poem with this anecdote, becatue to hare printed it 
without any remark might well have been understood as implying an un 
conditional approbation on my part, and this after many years* considera- 
tion. But if it be asked why I re-published it at all, I answer, that the 
poem had been attributed at different times to different other persons ; and 
what I had dared beget, I thought it neither manly nor honorable not to 
dare father. From the same motives I should have published perfect copies 
of two poems, the one entitled The Devil's Thoughts, and the rthcr, The 
Two round Spaces on the Tomb-Stone,* but that the first three stanzas of 
the former, which were worth all the rest of the poem, and the best stanza 
of the remainder, were written by a friend of deserved celebrity ; and be- 
cause there are passages in both, which might have given offence to the 
religious feelings of certain readers. I myself indeed see no reason why 
vulgar superstitions, and absurd conceptions that deform the pure faith of 
a Christian, should possess a greater immunity from ridicule than stories 
of witches, or the fi&bles of Greece and Rome. But there are those who 
deem it profaneness and irreverence to call an ape an ape, if it but wear a 
monk's cowl on its head ; and I would rather reason with this weaknem 
than offend it 

The passage from Jeremy Taylor to which I referred, is found in his second 
Sermon on Christ's Advent to Judgment ; which is likewise the second in 
his yesr's course of sermons. Among many remarkable passages of the same 
character in those discourses, I have selected this as the most so. '* But 
when this Lion of the tribe of Judah shall appear, then Justice shall strike, 
and Mercy shall not hold her hands ; she shall strike sore strokes, and Pity 
shall not break the blow. As there are treasures of good things, so hath 
God a treasure of wrath and fury, and scourges and scorpions ; and then 
shall be produced the shame of lust aud the malice of envy, and the groans 
of the oppressed and the persecutions of the saints, and the cares of covet- 
ousness and the troubles of ambition, and the indolence of traitors and the 
violences of rebels, and the rage of anger and the uneasiness of impatience, 
aud the restlessness of unlawful desires ; and by this time the monsters and 
diseases will be numerous and intolerable, when Gkxl's heavy hand shall 
press the sanies and the intolerableness, the obliquity and the unreason- 
ableness, the amazement and the disorder, the smart and the sorrow, the 
guilt aud the punishment, out from all our sins, and pour them into one 
chalice, and mingle them with an infinite wrath, and make the wicked 
drink off all the vengeance, and force it down their imwilling throats with 
the violence of devils and accursed spirits." 

That this Tartarean drench displays the imagination rather than the dis- 
cretion of the compounder ; that, iu short, this passage and others of the 
same kind are in a bod taste, few will deny at the present day. It would, 
doubtless, have more behooved the good bishop not to be wise beyond what 
is written on a subject in which Eternity is opposed to Time, and a death 
threatened, not the negative, but the positive Opposite of Life ; a subject, 
tberelbre^ which must of necessity be indescribable to the human under- 

• See pp, 289 292. 


sUnding in oar present state. Bat I cao neither find n ir beliere, Uud H 
ever occurred to any reader to ground on such passages a fimrge agaioil 
Bishop Taylor's humanity, or goodness of heart. I was not a little sur> 
prised therefore to find, in the Pursuits of Literature and other irorki, as 
horrible a sentence passed on Milton's moral character, for a passage in hit 
prose writings, as nearly parallel to this of Taylor's as two passages eaa 
well be conceived to be. All his merits, as a poet, forsooth — all the glory 
of having written the Paradise Lost, are light in the scale, nay, kick thv 
beam, compared with the atrocious malignity of heart, expressed in the 
ofienaive paragraph. I remembered, in general, that Miltoo had eoodiided 
one of his works on Reformation, written in the fervor of his youthful ima- 
gination, ill a high poetic strain, that wanted metre only to beeome a lyrical 
poenL I remembered that in the former part he had formed to hinwelf a 
perfect ideal of human virtue, a character of heroic, disinterested seal and 
devotion for Truth, ReUgion, and public Liberty, in act and in suffering, 
in the day of triumph and in the hour of martyrdom. Such spirits, as 
more excellent than others, he describes as having a more excellent reward, 
and as distinguished by a transcendent glory ; and this reward and this 
glory he displays and particularizes with an energy and brilliance that an> 
nounced the Paradise Lost as plainly, as ever the bright purple clouds in 
the east aniiouDoe<l the coming of the Sun. Milton then passes to the 
gloomy contrast, to such men as from motives of selfish ambition and the 
lust of personal aggrandizement should, against their own light, persecute 
truth aud the true religion, and wilfully abuse the powers and gifts in- 
trusted to them, to bring vice, blindness, misery and slavery, on Iheir 
native country, on the verv country that had trustetl, enriched and honored 
them. Such beings, after that speedy aud appropriate renwval from their 
sphere of mischief which all gix>d and humane men must of course desire^ 
will, he takes for grantee! by parity of reason, meet with a punishment, an 
ignominy, and a retaliation, as much severer than other wicked men, as 
their guilt and its consequences were more enormous. His description of 
this imaginiry punishment presents more distinct pictures to the fSancy 
than the extract fri»in Jeremy Taylor, but the thoughts in the latter are 
mcomparably more exags^erated and horrific All this I knew; but 1 
neither remembcre<l. nor by reference and careful re-perusal could discover, 
any other meaning, either in Milton or Taylor, but that good men will be 
rewarded, and the impenitent wicked punishetl, in propi^rtion to their 
dispiwitions and intentional acts in this life; and that if the punishment 
of the least wicked be fearful beyond conception, all words and descriptions 
must be so far true, that they must fail short of the punishment that 
awaits the transcondenily wiekeil. Had Milton stated either his ideal of 
virtue, or of depravity, as an individual or individuals actually existing f 
Certainly not. Is this representatic»n worded historically, or only hypo- 
thetically ? Assuredly the latter. D«h*s he express it as his own wish, that 
after death they should suffer these tortures ? or as a gt-neral ciHisequence, 
deduced from reason and revelation, that sudi will be their fat« t Again, 
the latter only. His wish is expressly confined to a spoidy stop being pill 


bv Providenoe to their power of inflicting misery on others. But did he 
name or refer t\> any persons living or dead f Na But the calumniators 
oi Milton dare say (for what will calumny not dare say f) that he had Laud 
aiid Straflrord in his mind, while writing of remorseless persecution, and 
the enslavement of a free country, from motives of selfish ambition. Now, 
what ir H stern anti-prelatist should dare say, that in speaking of the in- 
•olencies 01 traitors and the violences of rebels, Bishop Taylor must have 
iudividiuhced in his mind, Hampden, Hollis, Pym, Fairfax, Ireton, and Mil- 
ton t And what if he should take the liberty of concluding, that, in the 
aft-erKlesoription, the Bishop was feeding and feasting his party-hatred, and 
with those individuals before the Aves of his imagination enjoying, trait by 
vrait, horror after horror, the picture of their intolerable agonies I Yet 
this bigot woula ha\e au equal right thus to criminate the one good and 
great m-ui, as these men nave to criminate the other. Milton has said, and 
I doubt net but that iViylor with equal truth could have said it, " that in 
his whole Tie he never space a^^inst a man even that his skin should be 
graied." Ha asserted this when one of his opponents (either Bishop Hall 
or his nephew) had called upon the women and children in the streets to 
take up stones and stone him (Milton). Ii is known that Milton repeatedly 
used his interest to protet>t the royalists ; but even at a time when all lies 
would have been meritorious against hiJi, no charge was made, no story 
pretended that ho had ever directly or indirectly engaged or assisted in 
their persecution. Oh 1 methiuks there ai e otuer and far better feelings, 
which should be acquired by the perusal of our grent. elder writers. When 
I have before me on the some table, the works of Hammond and Baxter : 
when I reflect with what joy and dearness their blessed spirits are now 
loving each other : it seems a mournful thing that their names should be 
perverted to an occasion of Uttcrness among us, woo are enjoying that 
happy mean which the human tf/O-much on both sides was perhaps neces 
sary to produce. "The tangle of delasions which stifled and distorted the 
growing tree of our well-being has been torn away ; the parasite weeds 
that fed on its very roots have been plucked up with a salutary violenoe. 
To us there remains only quiet duties, the constant care, the gradual im- 
provement, the cautious imhazardous labora of the industrious though con- 
tented gardener — to prune, to strengthen, to engraft, and one by one to 
remove from its leaves and fresh shoots the slug and t)>e caterpillar. But 
far be it from us to undervalue with light and senseless detraction the con- 
scientious hardihood of our predecessors, or even to oondemn in them that 
▼ehemence, to which the blessings it won for us leave us now neither temp- 
tation nor pretext. We ante-date the feeling's, in order to criminate the 
anthors, of our present liberty, light and toleration.*** 

If ever two great men might seem, during their whole lives, to hav< 
moved in direct opposition, thouGfh neither of them has at any time intro- 
duced the name of the other, &Iilton and Jeremy Taylor were they. The 
former commenced his career by attacking the Church-Liturgy and all set 
•omif of prayer. The latter, but far more successfully, by defending both 

- The Friend, Works. H. p. Oa 


Milton's next work vas then against the Prelaey and the theo ensting 
Church-Government — ^Taylor's in vindication and support of them. Miltoo 
became more and more a stern republican, or rather an advocate for thai 
religious and moral aristocracy which, in his day, was called repubUcanism, 
and which, even more than royalism itself, is the direct autipode of modem 
jacobinism. Taylor, as more and more skeptical concerning the fitness of 
men in general for power, became more and more attached to the prat)g»> 
tives of monarchy. From Calvinism with a still decreasing respect lor 
Fathers, Councils, and for Church-antiquity in general, Milton seems to 
have ended in an indifference, if not a dislike, to all forms of eoclesiaatie 
government, and to ha\'e retreated wholly into the inward and spiritual 
church-communion of his own spirit with the Light, that ligfateth every 
man that cometh into the world Taylor, with a growing reverence tttr 
authority, an increasing sense of the insufficiency of the Scriptures without 
the aids of tradition and the consent of authorised interpreters, advanced 
as fiBu* in his approaches (not indeed to Popery, but) to Roman-Catholicism, 
as a conscientious minister of the English Church could well venture. Mil- 
ton would be, and would utter the same, to all, on all occasions : he would 
tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Taylor would 
become all things to all men, if by any means he might benefit any ; henoe 
lie availed himself, in his populai* writings, of opinions and representations 
which stand often in Blriking contrast with the doubts and convictions 
tfxpressed in his more philosophical works. He appears, indeed, not too 
severely to Imve blnined that management of truth (istam falaitatem dis- 
peusativom) authoriieil and exemplified by almost all the fathers : Litegrum 
omnino doctoribus et coBtus Christiani antistitibus esse, ut doloe versent, 
falsa veris et imprimis religionis hostes fallant, dunmiodo 
veritatis commodis ct utilitati iuserviant. 

The same antithesb might be carried on with the elements of their several 
mtellectual powers. Milton, austere, condensed, imaginative, supporting 
his truth by direct enunciation of lofty moral sentiment and by distinct 
visual representations, and in the some spirit overwhelming what he deemed 
falsehood by moral deuunciation and a succession of pictures appalling or 
repulsive. lu his prose, so many metaphors, so many allegorical minia- 
tures. Taylor, eminently discursive, accumulative, and (to use one of his 
own words) agglomerative ; still more rich in images than Milton himself^ 
but images of fancy, and presented to the common and passive eye, rather 
than to the eye of the imagination. Whether supporting or assailing, he 
makes his way either by argument or by appeals to the affections, unsurpassed 
even by the schoolmen in subtlety, agility, and logic wit, and unrivalled by 
the most rhctoricid of the fathers in the copiousness and vividness of his 
expressions and illustrations. Here words that convey feelings, and words 
that flash images, and words of abstract notion, flow together, and whirl 
and rush onward like a stream, at once rapid and full of eddies ; and yet 
still interfused here and there, we see a tongue or islet of smooth water, 
with some picture in it of earth or sky, landscape or living group of qoiei 


Differing, then, so widely, and almoBt oontrariantly, wherein did thoM 
j^rcat men agree I wherein did they resemble each .other I In geniua, in 
learning, in unfeigned piety, in blameless purity of life, and in benevolent 
aspirations and purposes for the moral and temporal improvement of their 
fellow-creatures I Both of them wrote a Latin Accidence, to render educa- 
tion less painful to children ; both of them composed hynms and psalms 
proportioned to the capacity of common congregations ; both, nearly at the 
Bime time, set the glorious example of publicly recommending and support- 
ing general toleration, and the hberty both of the pulpit and the press I In 
the writings of neither shall we find a single sentence, like those meek 
deliverances to God's mercy, with which Laud accompanied his votes for 
the mutilations and loathsome dungeoning of Leighton and others! — 
nowhere such a pious prayer as we find in Bishop Hall's memoranda of ]uf 
own life, concerning the subtle and witty atheist that so grievously per- 
plexed and gravelled him at Sir Robert Drury's till he prayed to the Lord 
to remove him, and behold I his prayers were heard : for shortly afterward 
this Pliilistine-eombatant went to London, and there perished of the plague 
in great misery I In short, nowhere shall we find the least approach, in 
the lives and writings of John Milton or Jeremy Taylor, to that guarded 
gentleness, to that sighing reluctance, with which the holy brethren of the 
Inquisition deliver over a condemned heretic to the civil magistrate, recom- 
mending him to mercy, and hoping that the magistrate will treat the erring 
brother with all possible mildness ! — ^the magistrate, who too well knows 
what would be his own fate, if he dared offend them by acting on their 

The opportunity of diverting the reader from myself to characters more 
worthy of his attention, has led me far beyond my first intention ; bat it is 
not unimportant to expose the false seal which has occasioned these attacks 
on our elder patriots. It has been too much the &shion, first to personify 
the Church of England, and then to speak of different individuals, who in 
different ages have been rulers in that church, as if in some strange way 
they constituted its personal identity. Why should a clergyman of the 
present day feel interested in the defence of Laud or Sheldon ? Surely it is 
sufficient for the warmest partisan of our establishment, that he can assert 
with truth, — ^when our Church persecuted, it was on mistaken principles 
held in common by all Christendom ; and at all events, far less culpable 
was this intolerance in the Bishops, who were maintaining the existing 
laws, than the persecuting spirit afterwards shown by their successful 
opponents, who had no such excuse, and who should have been taught 
mercy by their own sufferings, and wisdom by the utter failure of the 
experiment in their own case. We can say, that our Church, apostolical 
in its faith, primitive in its ceremonies, unequalled in its Uturgical forms ; 
Uiat our Church, which has kindled and displayed more bright and burning 
lights of genius and learning, than all other Protestant churches since the 
Reformation, was (with the single exception of the times of Laud and Shel- 
don) least intolerant, when all Christians unhappily deemed a species of 
intolerance their reli^ous duty ; tliat Bishops of our Church were amon^ 



the first that contended against this error ; and finally, thai stnee the Refor 
nation, when toleranee became a fashion, the Chorch of England in a toler 
ating age, has shown herself eminently tolerant, and fiu* more so, bolh in 
spirit and in (act, than many of her most bitter opponents, who profess to 
deem toleration itself an insult on the rights of mankind I As to myself 
who not only know the Church-Establishment to be tolerant, bnt who see 
in it the greatest, if not the sole safe bulwark of toleration, I feel no neeea> 
sity of defending or palliating oppressions under the two Charleaea, in order 
U exdaia> with a full and fervent ^leart^ Eato perpetual 


C H R I S T A B E 1. 



Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam viflibiies in rerum 
iiniTertitate. Sed horum omnium famlliam quia nobis enarrabit, et g^adus 
et oognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera ? Quid agunt ? qusB loca 
habitant? Harum rerum notitiani semper ambivit ingenium humanum, 
nunquam attigit Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tan- 
quam in tabuli, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem oontemplari : ne mens 
assuefacta hodierme vitiB minutiis se contrahat nimis, et tota subsidat in 
pusillas cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque 
seryandus, ut eerta ab incertis, diem a nocte, distioguamus. 



It is an ancient Mariner, 

And he stoppeth one of three. 

" By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, 

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 

" The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 
And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met, the feast is set : 
May'st hear the merry din." 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 
'' There was a ship,'' quoth he. 
** Hold off I unhand me, gray beard loon !*' 
EfbMX)n8 his hand dropt he. 

He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The wedding-guest stood still, 
And listens like a three years' child : 
The Mariner hath his will. 

An ancient Marl- 
IMMT meeteth Uirae 
gallants biddon to 
a wedding fbaat, 
and detainelli ooo. 

The weddliOk 

guest is spell* 
onrid by the ej9 
oftbeold Ma-far^ 
ing man, and ooo* 
straJnod to beai 
bis tale. 

The wedding-guest sat on a stone : 
He can not choose but hear ; 



rbo Mariner M\» 
how the ship sail' 
wl Bouthwanl 
and fair weather, 
till it reached the 

The wedding- 
gueat hearetb the 
bridal music; but 
the manner cou- 
linueth his tale. 

The ship drawn 
by a storm tow- 
ard the south 

And thus spake on that ancient man» 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared, 

Merrily did we drop 

Below the kirk, below the hill. 

Below the light-house top. 

The sun came up upon the left, 
Out of the sea came he ! 
And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea. 

Higher and higher every day, 

Till over the mast at noon — 

The Wedding-Guest here beat his breasli 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 

The bride hath paced into the hall, 
Red as a rose is she ; 
Nodding their heads before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he can not choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

And now the storm- blast came, and he 
Was tyrannous and strong : 
He struck with his o'ertakiiig wings. 
And chased us south along. 

With sloping masts and dipping prow. 

As who pursued with yell and blow 

Still treads the shadow of his foe, 

And forward bends his head, 

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blaat, 

And southward aye we fled. 

And now there came both mist and snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold * 



And ice, mast-high, came floating hy, 
As green as emerald. 

And through the drifle the snowy clifts 
Did send a dismal sheen : 
Nor shapes of men nor beast we ken — 
The ice was all between. 

The ice was her ;, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around : 

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, 

Like noises in a s wound ! 

At length did cross an Albatross, 
Through the fog it came ; 
As if it had been a Christian soul, 
We hailed it in God's name. 

It ate the food it ne'er had eat. 
And round and round it flew. 
The ice did split with a thunder fit ; 
The helmsman steered us through ! 

And a good south wind sprung up behind ; 

The Albatross did follow. 

And every day, for food or play. 

Came to the mariner's hollo ! 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud. 

It perched for vespers nine ; 

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white. 

Glimmered the white moon-shine. 

*' God save thee, ancient Mariner ! 
From the fiends, that plague thco thus ! — 
Why look'st thou so ?" — With my cross-bow 
\ shot the Albatross. 

The laikl of IcWb 
and <if feufui 
rounds wherw nn 
llTlng thing WM 
to be Mwu. 

Till a great 
bird called the 
Albatruev, came 
throuKh the Mioir 
f(«, aiid was re> 
oeived with great 
joy aod hoapital- 

And lot the At* 
biid (if guud 
<>roen,aiKi follow- 
eih tlie ship as it 
ward through fiig 
iumI floating ioa. 

The ancient Mark 
ner inhoapltablj 
kllletb the |ilou« 
Mrd of guud 



deot Mariner, for 

Bat when the fog 
ekMrod off, they 
justify the saints 
and thuH make 
themselves ac- 
otmplioes In I ho 

The fair breezn 
continues ; the 
ship enters the 
Paciflc Ocean, 
and sails nurth- 
ward. OTeo until 
It reaches the 

The ahlp hath 
been suddenly 


TiiE Sun now rose upon the right : 
Out of the sea came he, 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 

And the good south wind still blew behind, 
But no sweet bird did follow, 
Nor any day for food or play 
Came to the mariners' hollo ! 

And I had done a hellish thing, 

And it would work *em woe : 

For all averred, I had killed the bird 

That made the breeze to blow. 

Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay. 

That made the breeze to blow ! 

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head. 

The glorious Sun uprist : 

Then all averred, 1 had killed the bird 

That brought the fog and mist. 

*Twa8 right, said they, such birds to slay. 

That bring the fog and nii&t. 

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew 

The furrow followed free ; 

We were the first that ever burst 

Into that silent sea. 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down^ 
'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea ! 

All in a hot and copper sky, 
The bloody Sim, at noon, 
Right up above the mast did stand. 
No bigger than the Moon. 

Day afler day, day afler day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion : 



begins to beafes- 

As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean 

Water, "water, everywhere, 
And all the boards did shrink ; 
Water, water, everywhere, 
Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot : Christ I 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy thing^s did crawl with legs 
TJpon the slimy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night ; 
The water, like a witch's oils, 
Burnt green, and blue and white. 

And some in dreams assured were A *pVK **"* ^^^' 

... - lowHl them ; «ii« 

Of the spmt tiiat plagued us so ; <>r the inTiaibie 

Nine fathoms deep he had followed us this planet, neith- 

From the land of mist and snow. nor ange£*;*ooi^ 

earning whom 
toe leari'tKl Jew, Joeophus. and the Plntonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Pselluis may 
D(* C"D8u ted. They are very numerous, and there Is no climate or element without 
:»xiif or mors. 

And every tongue, through utter drought, 
Was withered at the root ; 
We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 

Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 

The shlp^mstes. 
In their sore dis- 
tress, would fain 
thntw the whole 
guilt on the an- 
cient Marlnfr ; in 
hang thtt dead 
sea- bird round 
bis neck. 


There passed a weary time. Each throat 
Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
A weary time ! a weary time ! 
How glazed each weary eye. 



The ftnefenlBlari- 
nor behuldtfUi a 
Mfcn in the el<»- 
UMOt alkr ofL 

At ite nearer up- 
proach, it seem- 
eth him to be a 
ahip; and at a 
dear ransom he 
freeth his speech 
from the bonds 
•if thirst. 

A flash of Jojr ; 

And horror fol- 
lows. For can it 
be a ship that 
comas onward 
wiltkout wind or 

It ■eeroeth him 
but the skelcu»n 
of a ship. 

Wheu looking westward, I beheld 
A something in the sky. 

At first it seemed a little speck. 
And then it seemed a mist ; 
It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist. 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
And still it neared and ueared : 
As if it dodged a water-sprite, 
It plunged and tacked and veered. 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 

AVe could not laugh nor wail ; 

Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! 

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 

And cried, A sail ! A sail ! 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. 
Agape they heard me call : 
(rrainercy ! they for joy did grin, 
And all at once their breath drew in, 
As they were drinking all. 

See ! see I (I cried) she tacks no more 
Hither to work us weal ; 
Without a breeze, without a tide, 
She steadies with upright keel I 

The western wave was all a-fiame. 
The day was well nigh done I 
Almost upon the western wave 
Rested the broad bright Sun ; 
When that strange shape drove suddenly 
Betwixt us and the Sun. 

And straight the sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven's Mother send us grace I) 
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
With broad and burning face. 



Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
How fast she nears and nears ! 
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
Like restless gossameres ? 

Are those her ribs through which the Sun 
Did peer, as through a grate ? 
And is that Woman all her crew ? 
Is that a Death ? and are there two ? 
Is Death that woman's mate ? 

Her lips were red, her looks were free, 
Her locks were yellow as gold : 
Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 
Who thicks man's blood with cold. 

AnU Its ribs are 
seen as bars un 
the face of the 
setting Sun. The 
spectre - woman 
and her death- 
malefaiid no oth- 
er on board the 

Like vessel, like 

The naked hulk alongside came, 
And the twain were casting dice ; 
*' The game is done I Fve, Tve won I'* 
Q^uoth she, and whistles thrice. 

The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out *. 
At one stride comes the dark ; 
W^ith far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
on* shot the spectre- bark. 

We listened and looked sideways up ! 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup. 

My life-blood seemed to sip ! 

The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steerman's face by his lamp gleamed white ; 

From the sails the dew did drip — 

Till clomb above the eastern bar 

The horned Moon, with one bright star 

Within the nether tip. 

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 
Too quick for groan or sigh, 
Each turned his i'ace with a ghastly pang. 
And cursed me with his eye. 

Death have diced 
f. r the nhip^s 
crew, and she 
(the laiter; win* 
nuth the aueieot 

No twilight with- 
in the courts of 
the Su*». 

At the riaiBg of 
tlie Moou. 

Une after aoothar 



Ilia ship- mates 
droD down dead. 

bogiiis h*u work 
iHi the ancient 

Four times fifly living men 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan), 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump» 
They dropped down one by one. 

The souls did from their bodies fly,- 
They fled to bliss or "woe I 
And every soul, it passed mc by, 
Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! 

The weddinflT- 
a apirit is talking 
lo him. 


" I FEAR thee, ancient Mariner ! 

I fear thy skinny hand ! 

And thou art long, and lank, and browBi 

As is the ribbed sea sand.* 

Bat the ancient 
Mariner aasM ret h 
him of his bodily 
life, and {mKeed- 
irih lu relate his 
horrible penance. 

I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
And thy skinny hand, so brown.*' — 
Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest ! 
This body dropt not down. 

Alone, alone, all, all alone. 
Alone on a wide wide sea ! 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

The many men, so beautiful ! 

And they all dead did lie : 

And a thousand thousand slimy things 

Lived on ; and so did L 

I looked upon the rotting sea. 
And drew my eyes away ; 
I looked upon the rotting deck, 
And there the dead men lay 

• For the last two lines of this stanzA I am iiidohted to Mr Wordsworth, 
It was oil a delightful walk from Notbcr Stowey to Dulverton, with him 
and his sister, in the autumn of 1797, that this poem was phmoed, aod ir 
|tiirt composed. 

lie despiseth the 
creatures of the 

And eoTleth that 
thev should live, 
an«l so many lie 



I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart a6 dry as dust. 

1 closed my lids, and kept them close, 

And the balls like pulses beat ; 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky 

Lay like a load on my weary eye, 

And the dead were at my feet 

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
Nor rot nor reek did they : 
The look with which they looked on me 
Had never passed away. 

An orphan's curse would drag to hell 

A spirit from on high ; 

But oh ! more horrible than that 

Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 

iSeven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 

And yet I could not die. 

But the cane liv 
eth fur him in 
the eye uf the 
dead men. 

The moving Moon went up the sky, 
And nowhere did abide : 
Softly she was going up, 
And a star or two beside — 

In hi! lonellneni 

and llxediie0« he 

yearnelh towarda 

the Journ«*ylii^ 

Moon, and tliu 

Bt-tM that still ^o- 

Jonnii yet htili 

move onward; 

KAil ervrywhere the blue sky belongs to them^ and is thnir appointed nnt, and their 

ijUlv0 country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lurda 

that are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent Joy at their arrival. 

Her beams bemocked the sultry main 
Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
But where the ship's huge shadow lay. 
The charmed water burnt alway 
A still and awful red. 

Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

1 watched the water-snakes : 

They moved in tracks of shining white, 

And when they reared, the elfish light 

Fell off in hoary flakes. 

By the light of 
the Moon h^ 
beholdelh ImmI*^ 
creaturfw or ihe 
great calm. 


llMir happiuoM. 

He Meawth them 
In kis bean. 


Withiu the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich attire : 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. 

They coiled and swam ; and every trmck 

Was a flash of golden fire. 

happy living things ! no tongue 

Their beauty might declare : 

A spring of love gushed from my heart. 

And I blessed them unaware : 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 

And I blessed them unavrare. 

TlM apeU beglna 

The selfsame moment I could pray ; 
And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 

Bj sraee of tlie 
lioly Mother, the 
ancient Mariner 
ia refrwhed with 


Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 
Beloved from jwle to pole I 
To Mary (dueen the praise be given ! 
She sent the gentle sleep from Ueaven, 
That slid into my soul. 

The silly buckets on the deck, 

That had so long remained, 

I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; 

And when I awoke, it rained. 

My lips were wet, my throat was cold. 
My garments all were dank ; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams. 
And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel mv limbs : 
I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep. 
And was a blessed ghost 



\ud soon I heard a roaring wind : 
It did not come anear ; 
But with its sound it shook the sails, 
That were so thin and sere. 

The upper air burst into life ! 
And a hundred fire-Hags sheen, 
To and fro they were hurried about. ; 
And to and i'ro, and in and out, 
The wan stars danced between. 

And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
And the rain poured down from one black cloud; 
The Moon was at its edge. 

The thick black cloud was cleil, and still 
The Moon was at its side : 
Like waters shot from some high crag, 
The lightning fell with never a jag, 
A river steep and wide. 

The loud wind never reached the ship, 
Yet now the ship moved on ! 
Beneath the lightning and the moon 
The dead men gave a groan. 

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
It had been strange, even in a dream, 
To have seen those dead men rise. 

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ; 

Yet never a breeze up blew ; 

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 

Where they were wont to do ; 

They raised their limbs like lifeless tooU— 

We were a ghastly crew. 

The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee ; 

He heareUi 
suiiihU mid seeib 
Btrange nigh ■ 
and cumnM>tiuii« 
in the eky niK* 
Um elemeDL 

The bodies of tiM 
8hlp*8 crew are 
iiinpired, aod the 
thip rooTee on 


Bnt not by iie 
■ouls of the men, 
nor by demon 4 uf 
earth or middle 
air, but by a 
blmsed troop of 
•n^Hc spiriU, 
Ktit down by the 
aT<*catioo of the 
jaardiau saiuL 


The body and I pulled at one rope« 
But he said naught to me. 

*• I fear thee, ancient Mariner !" 
Be calm, thou Wedding-Guept ! 
'Twas not those souls that Hod in pain. 
Which to their corses came again, 
But a troop of spirits blest : 

For when it dawned — they dropped their anna, 
And clustered round the mast ; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouthe. 
And from their bodies passed. 

Around, around, flew each sweet sound 
Then darted to the Sun ; 
Slowly the sounds came back again, 
Now mixed, now one bv one. 


Sometimes a-droppiug from the sky 
I heanl the sky-lark sing ; 
Sometimes all little birds that arc. 
How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
With their sweet jargoning ! 

And now 'twas like all instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute ; 
And now it is an angeVs song. 
That makes the heavens be mute. 

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafv mouth of June. 

That to the sleeping woo<ls all night 

Siiigeth a quiet tune. 

Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
Y'et never a breeze did breathe : 
Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Movcil onward from l>ciioath 


Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
From the land of iniEt and biiow, 
The spirit slid : and it waa he 
That made the ship to go 
The sails at noon lcf\ oti' Ihcir tune, 
Ami the ship stood still also. 

The Sun, right up above the mast, 
Had fixed her to the ocean : 
But in a minute she 'gan Btir, 
With a shott uneafly motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her length 
With a short uneasy motion. 

Then like a pawing horse let go, 
She made a sudden bound ; 
It flung the blood into my bet i, 
And I fell down in a swound. 

How long in that same fit I lay, 
I have not to declare ; 
But ere my living life returned, 
I heard, and in my soul discerned 
Two voices in the air. 

" Is il he ?" quolh one, '■ Is this tho mtm ? 
By him who died on cross. 
With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless Albatross. 

" The spirit who bidetb by himself 
In the land of mist and suow. 
He loved the bird that loved tho man 
Who shot him with his bow." 

Tho other waa a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew . 

Quoth he, " The man hath penance donci 

And penance more will do." 

luNg «iid liMvy 




rnisT VOICE. 

But tell me, tell mo ! speak again, 
Thy soft response renewing — 
What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
What is the ocean doing ? 


Still as a slave before his lord, 
The ocean hath no blast ; 
His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the Moon is cast — 

If he may know which way to go; 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see I how graciously 
She looketh down on him. 

The Mariner bath 
b«»eii cait into a 
tnnco; for th« 
fciigelic power 
cauMlb the vw»- 
trsnl raster than 
buinan lile could 

rmsT VOICE. 

But why drives on that ship so fist, 
Without or wave or wind ? 


The air is cut away before, 
And closes from behind. 

Fly, brother, fly I more high, more high ! 
Or we shall be belated : 
For slow and slow that ship will go. 
When the Mariner's trance is abated. 

Tbe supenuunnd 
motion is retar- 
ded ; tbe 5fariner 
awakcfl, and his 
penance begins 

1 woke, and we were sailing on 

As in a gentle weather : 

'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high : 

The dead men stood together. 

All stood together on the dock. 
For a charuel-dungcon filter: 


All fixed on me their alony eyes. 
That ia the Moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which thoy dieil, 
TIad never pasEcd away : 
1 could not draw ray eyea from theirs, 
Nor turn tliem up to pray. 

And now this spell was snapt : once more 

I viewed ihe ocean green, 

And looked far forth, yet little saw 

Of what had else been seen — 

Like one, that o 

Doth walk in fear and dread, 

And having once turned round walks on. 

And tnma no niuri: his head ; 

Because he knows, a frightful fiend 

Both close behind him Ircad. 

But Boon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made : 
Its path was not upon the sea, 
In ripple or in shade. 

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
Like ft meadow-gale of spring — 
It mingled strangely with my fears. 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

SwifUy, swiftly flew the Ghi]i, 
Yet she sailed soflly too : 
Su'eetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
On me alone it blew. 

Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 

The light-house top I see ? imbm^'m. 

Is this tho hill ? is this Ihc kirk ? ?.^ ."IjIT "■''"" 

Is this mine o 

"We drifted o'er the harbor-bar, 
And 1 will) »>b» did pray — 


kpliiU leare ilw 

And apposr In 
Ihflr owu fcmM 


let me be awake, my God ! 
Or let me sleep aiway. 

The harbor-bay was clear as glast, 
So smoothly it was strewn ! 
And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
And the shadow of the moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less. 
That stands above tlie rock : 
The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 

And the bay was white with silent light 
Till rising from the same, 
Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
In crimson colors came. 

A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were : 

1 turned my eyes upon tlie deck — 
Oh, Christ I what saw I there I 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
And, by the holy rood I 
A man all light, a scrapli-man. 
On every corse there stood. 

This seraph-band, each waved liis hand 
It was a heavenly sijrht I 
They stood as signals to tlie laud. 
Each one a lovely light ; 

This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 
No voice did they impart — 
No voice ; but oli ! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
I heard the Pilot's cheer ; 
My head was turned ]ierlorce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 


The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast : 
Bear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third — I heard his voice : 

It is the Hermit good ! 

He singcth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood. 

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 

The Albatross's blood. 


Tins Hermit good lives in that wood '*^« Hermit o 

Which slopes down to the sea. 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears I 

He loves to talk with mariners 

That come from a far countree. 

He kneels at mom, and noon, and eve- 
He hath a cushion plump : 
It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk, 
" "Why, this is strange, I trow I 
Where are those lights so many and fair, 
That signal made but now ?" 

'* Strange, by my faith I" the Hermit said — Approacheth the 

Ana they answered not our cheer I <ier. 

The planks looked warped ! and see those sails, 
How thin they are and sere ! 
I never saw aught like to them, 
Unless perchance it were 

"Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest-brook along ; 
"When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
That eats the she- wolfs young." 


The «hip sadden- 

Tlieaiitieiit Mari- 
ner is aaved in 
Um PikM^s boat. 


" Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look-* 
(The Pilot made reply) 
I am a-fearcd" — '* Push on, push on !" 
Said the Hennit cheerily. 

The hoat came closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
The hoat came close heneath the ship. 
And straight a sound was heard. 

Under the water it rumhled on, 
3till louder and more dread : 
It reached the ship, it split the hay ; 
The ship went down like lead. 

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 

Which sky and ocean smote, 

Like one that hath been seven days drowned 

My body lay afloat ; 

B'lt swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the Pilot's boat. 

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
The boat spun round and round ; 
And all was still, save that the hill 
"Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
And fell down in a tit ; 
The holy Hermit raised his eyes. 
And prayed where he did sit. 

I took the oars : the Pilot's boy, 

Wlio now doth crazy go, 

Laughed loud and long, and all the while 

His eyes went to and fro. 

" Ha : ha !' quoth he, "full plain I see, 

The Devil knows how to row." 

And now, all in my own countree, 
I stood on the firm land I 



The lieimit stepped forth from ths boat, 
And scarcely he could stand. 

** shrieve me, shrievc me, holy man I" 
The Hermit crossed his brow. 
** Say quick,'* quoth he, " I bid ihee say- 
What manner of man art thou ?'* 

The ancient Mar 
ln«r eamei»ii> 
entreatclh ihe 
llcrmii to shrieve 
him ; and thH 
penance of Ufo 
folia on him. 

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 

With a wofnl agony. 

Which forced me to begin my tale ; 

And then it Ici^ me free. 

Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
That agony returns : 
And till my ghastly tale is told, 
This heart within me burns. 

I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
I have strange power of speech ; 
That moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear mo : 
To him my tale I teach. 

What loud uproar bursts from that door I 
The wedding-guests arc there : 
But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are : 
And hark the little vesper-bell. 
Which biddeth ine to prayer I 

O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath beeu 
Alone on a wide wide sea : 
So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 

And ever and 
anon throughout 
bia future life 
an agony eon- 
Mtraineth him to 
travel from land 
to laud. 

sweeter than the marriage-feast 
Tis sweeter far to me, 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company i— 


Ami to teacb, by 
lore and rever* 
•ooe to all things 
that God made 


To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray, 

While each to his great Father bends. 

Old men, and babes, and loving friendii 

And youths and maidens gay ! 

Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest I 
He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 
For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all." 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar, 
Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest 
Tunied from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that hath been stunned 
And is of sense forlorn : 
A sadder and a wiser man. 
Ho rose the mnrow mom. 



Tat finit put of the fuUmiing poem was vTitten in the jrear 119T, at 
Slowey, in the county of Sumerset. The Becuutl port, aft^r my return from 
GcriDsny, in the ytai 1800, nt Keswick, Cumberland. It is probable, that 
if the pucm hud been fiuinhed at cither of the former periodn. or if eTen the 
lirst anil second part hail been publielied ia tlie jear 1 SOO, the impression of 
its originality would have been much greater than I dare ot preseol expect. 
But for this, I hove only my own indolence to blame. The dates are mention- 
ed for the eioIusivB purpose of precluding cbargca of plagiarism or servile 
■nutation from myselC Fur there ii amon^pt us a set of eritics, who aeem 
tn lioliL tint every possible thought and image is traditiooal; who have no 
U'rtii'U that there arc lueh things aa fountmus ia the world, small as well aa 
great; and who would therefore eharitably derive every rill they behold 
flowing, from a pertbratiun mailo in some other man's tank. I am confident, 
however, that as iar as the present poem is coneemcd, the celebrated poet* 
whose writings I might be suspected of having imitated, cither in partieular 
passages, or iu the tone and the spirit of the whole, would be among the 
lirst to vindicate me from the charge, and who, on any striking Qii'i'^id^n™, 
would permit me to address them iu this doggerel version of t4o ntookish 
L)tin hezameten. 

I luive only to add, tliat the metre of the (Tlirislabcl is not, property 
ipeakiug, irrt^ular, though it may acem so from iU being founded on a new 
principle : namely, that of couutin^ in each line the accents, not the sylla- 
bles. Though the latter may vary fruiti seven to twelve, yet in each line 
the accents will be fomid to be only four. Nevertheless this occuiooal t>- 
riatioa in number of syllables is not introduced wantonly, or fbr tbo mere 
ends of convenience, but in correspondence with tome transit-ion, in the n» 
lure of the imagery or passion. 


'TiS the middle of night by the culio clock. 
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock ; 

* To Iba edhloo of IHIfl. 


Tu— whit ! ^Tu— whoo ! 

And hark, again ! the crowing cock. 
How drowsily it crew. 

Sir Leoliiic, the Baron rich, 

Hath a toothless mastiff bitch ; 

From her kennel beneath the rock 

She maketh answer to the clock, 

Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour ; 

Ever and aye, by shine and shower. 

Sixteen short howls, not over loud ; 

Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 

Is the night chilly and dark ? 
The night is chilly, but not dark. 
The thin gray cloud is spread on high, 
It covers but not hides the sky. 
The moon is behind, and at the full ; 
And yet she looks both small and dull. 
The night is chill, the cloud is gray : 
'Tis a month before the month of May, 
And the Spring comes slowly up this way. 

The lovely lady, Christabel, 

Whom her father loves so well, 

What makes her in the wood so late, 

A furlong from the castle-gate ? 

She had dreams all yesternight 

Of her own betrothed knight ; 

And she in the midnight wood will pray 

For the weal of her lover that's far away. 

She stole along, she nothing spoke, 
The sighs she heaved were soil and low. 
And naught was green upon the oak, 
But moss and rarest misletoe : 
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, 
And in silence prayeth she 

The lady sprang up suddenly. 
The lovely lady, Christabel ! 


It moaned as near, as near can be, 
But what it is. ibe can not tell. — 
On llic other side, it seems to be, 
or the huge, bmad-brcasted, old oak-tree. 

The night is chill ; the forest bare ; 

Is it the wind that luoaneth bleuk 1 

There ia nut wind eiioitgh in the air 

To move away the ringlet cnrl 

From the lovely lady's cheek — 

There is not wind enough lo twirl 

The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 

That dances as often as dance it can, 

Hanging so light, and hanpng so high, 

U[i the lopmost twig that looks up at the sky. 

Hush! beating heart of Christabel I 
Jcsu, Maria, shield her well ! 
She folded her arms beneath her cloak. 
And stole to the other side of the oak 
What sees she there ? 

There she sees a damsel bright, 

Drest in a silken robe of white. 

That shadowy in the moonlight shone : 

The neck that made that white robe wan 

Her stately neck, and arms were bare ; 

Her blue-veined feet unHandal'd were. 

And wildly glittered here and there 

The gems entangled in her hair. 

1 guesa, 'twas frightful there lo see 

A lady so richly clad as she — 

Beautiful cxeccdingly ! 

Mary mother, aavc me now ! 

(tjaid Christabel,) And wlin art Ihoa? 

The lady strange uiiide answer meet 
And her voice was faint and sweet :— 
Have pity on my sore distress, 
1 scarce can speak iiir 


Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear ! 
Said Christabel, How earnest thou here ? 
And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet. 
Bid thus pursue her answer meet : — 

My sire is of a noble line, 

And my name is jreraldine : 

Five warriors seized me yestermorn, 

Me, even me, a maid forlorn : 

They choked my cries with force and fright, 

And tied me on a palfrey white. 

The palfrey was as fleet as wind. 

And they rode furiously behind. 

They spurred amain, their steeds were white : 

And once we crossed the shade of night. 

As sure as Heaven shall rescne me, 

I have no thought what men they be ; 

Nor do I know how long it is 

(For I have lain entranced I wis) 

Since one, the tallest of the fixe, 

Took me from the palfrey's back, 

A wearv woman, scarce alive. 

Some muttered words his comrades spoke : 

He placed me underneath this oak ; 

He swore they would return with haste ; 

W'^hither they went I can not tell — 

I thought I heard, some minutes past, 

Sounds as of a castle bell. 

Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she). 

And help a wretched maid to ilee 

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand 

And comforted fair Geraldine : 

well, bright dame I may you command 

The service of Sir Leoline ; 

And gladly our stout chivalry 

Will he send forth and friends 'withal 

To guide and guard you safe and free 

Home to your noble father's hall. 


She rose : and forth with steps they passed 

That strove to be, and were not, fast. 

Her gracious stars the lady blest, 

And thus spake on sweet Christ abel : 

All our household arc at rest, 

The hall as silent as the cell ; 

Sir Leoline is weak in health, 

And may not well awakened be, 

But we will mo 70 as if in stealth. 

And I beseech your court/?sy. 

This night, to share your couch with me. 

They crossed the moat, and Christabel 

Took the key that fitted well ; 

A little door she opened straight. 

All in the middle of the gate ; 

The gate that was ironed within and without, 

Where an army in battle array had marched out. 

The lady sank, belike through pain, 

And Christabel with might and main 

Lifted her up, a weary weight, 

Over the threshold of the gate : 

Then the lady rose again, 

And moved, as she were not in pain. 

So free from danger, free from fear, 

They crossed the court : right glad they were. 

And Christabel devoutly cried 

To the Lady by her side : 

Praise we the Virgin all divine 

Who hath rescued thee from thy distress I 

Alas, alas ! said Geraldine, 

I can not speak for weariness. 

So free from danger, free from fear, 

They crossed the court : right glad they were 

Outside her kennel the mastiff old 
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
The mastiff old did not awake. 
Yet she an angry moan did make ! 


And from the floor whereon she sank. 
The loily lady stood upright ; 
She was most heautiful to see. 
Like a lady of a far couiitr^e. 

And thus the lofty lady spake — 
All they, who live in the uppei sky. 
Do love you, holy Christabel I 
And you love them, and for their sake 
And for the good which ine hefel.; 
Even I in my degree will try, 
Fair maiden, to requite you well. 
But now unrobe yoursolt ; for I 
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie. 

(duoth Christabel, so let it be ! 
And as the lady bade, did she. 
Her gentle limbs did she undress, 
And Jay down in her loveliness. 

But through her brain of weal and woo 
So many thourrhts moved to and fro, 
That vain it were her lids to close ; 
So hall- way from the bed she rose, 
And on her elbow did recline 
To look at the lady Gerald ine. 


Beneath the lamp the lady bowed. 
And slowly rolled her eyes around ; 
Then drawing in her breath aloud 
Like one that shuddered, she unbound 
The cincture from beneath her breast . 
Her silken robe, and inner vest, 
Dropt to her feet, and full in view. 
Behold ! her bosom and half her side — 
A sight to dream of, not to tell I 
shield her I shield sweet Christabel ! 

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ; 
Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! 
Deep from within she seems half-way 
To lifl some weight with sick assay, 


And eyes the maid and seeks delay ; 
Then suddenly as one defied 
Collects herself in scorn aiid pride, 
And lay down by the maiden's side I — 
And in her arms the maid she took, 

Ah well-a-day I 
And with low voice and doleful look 

These words did say : 
In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, 
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel I 
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow 
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow ; 
But vainly thou warrest. 

For this is alone in 
Thy power to declare. 

That in the dim forest 
Thou heard 'st a low moaning. 
And S^und'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair ; 
And didst bring her home with thee in love and in chanty 
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air. 


It was a lovely sight to see 
The lady Chiistjibcl, when she 
Was praying at the old oak-tree. 

Amid the jagged shadows 

Of mossy leafless boughs, 

Kneeling in the moonlight, 

To make her gentle vows ; 
Her slender palms together prest. 
Heaving sometimes on her breast ; 
Her face resigned to bliss or bale — 
Her face, oh caJi it fair not pale. 
And both blue eyes more bright thai, clear. 
Each about to have a tear. 

With open eyes (ah woe is me I) 
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, 


And nothing doubting of her spell 
Awakens the lady Cliristabel 
" Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel ? 
I trust that you have rested well." 

And Christabel awoke and spied 
The same who lay do^n by her sidt 
O rather say, the same whom she 
Raised up beneath the old oak-tree I 
Nay, fairer yet and yet more fair I 
For she belike hath drunken deep 
Of all the blessedness of sleep ! 
And while she spake, her looks, her air 
Such gentle thankfulness declare, 
That (so it seemed) her girded vests 
Grew light beneath her heaving breasts. 
" Sure I have sinned I" said Christabel, 
** Now heaven be praised if all be well I" 
And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, 
Did she the lofty lady greet 
With such perplexity of mind 
As dreams too lively leave behind. 

So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed 
}{er maiden limbs, and having prayed 
That He, who on the cross did groan. 
Might wash away her sins unknown. 
She forthwith led fair Geraldine 
To meet her sire, Sir Leoline. 

The lovely maid and the lady tall 
Are pacing both into the hall, 
And pacing on through page and groon. 
Enter the Baron's presence-room. 

The Baron rose, and while he prest 
His gentle daughter to his breast, 
AVith cheeri'ul wonder in his eyes 
The lady Geraldine espies, 
And gave such welcome to the same. 
As might beseem so bright a dame ! 


But when he heard the lady's tale, 
And when she told her father's name, 
Why waxed Sir Leolino so pale, 
Murmuring o'er the name agam, 
liord Roland de Vaux of Trycrmaine ? 

Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
And constancy lives in realms above ; 
And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
And to be wroth with one we love, 
Doth work like madness in the brain. 
And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
With Roland and Sir Leoline. 
Each spake words of high disdain 
And insult to his heart's best brother : 
They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 
But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paiumg^* 
They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 
A dreary sea now flows between ; — 
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. 
Shall wholly do away, I ween. 
The marks of that which once hath been. 

Sir Leoline, a moment's space, 
Stood gazing on the damsel's face : 
And the youthful Lord of Trycrmaine 
Came back upon his heart again. 

then the Baron forgot his age, 

His noble heart swelled high with rage ; 

He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side, 

He would proclaim it far and wide 

With trump and solemn heraldry, 

That they who thus had wronged the dame 

Were base as spotted infamy ! 

*' And if they dare deny the same. 

My herald shall appoint a week. 

And let the recreant traitors seek 


My tourney court — that there aud then 

I may dislodge their reptile souls 

From the bodies and forms of men !'* 

He spake : his eye in lightning rolls ! 

For the lady was ruthlessly seized ; and he kenned 

In the beautiful lady the child of his friend ! 

And now the tears were on his face, 
And fondly in his arms he took 
Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, 
Prolonging it with joyous look. 
Which when she viewed, a vision fell 
Upon the soul of Christabel, 
The vision of fear, the touch and pain ! 
She shrunk and shuddered, aud saw again — 
(Ah, woe is me ! Was it for thee, 
Thou gentle maid I such sights to see I) 
Again she saw that bosom old. 
Again she felt that bosom cold, 
And drew in her breath with a hissing sound : 
•^ Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, 
And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid 
With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. 


The touch, the sight, had passed away, w 
And in its stead that vision blest, (f 

Which comforted her after-rest, </ 

While in the lady's arms she lay, 1 

Had put a rapture in her breast, ^ 

And on her lips and o'er her eyes * 

Spread smiles like light ! 

With new surprise,* 
" What ails then my beloved child ?" 
The Baron said — His daughter mild 
Made answer, " All will yet be well I" 
1 ween, she had no power to tell 
Aught else : so mighty was the spell. 

Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 
Had deemed her sure a thing divine. 


Such sorrow with such grace she blended, 
As if she feared, she had offended 
Sweet Christahel, that gentle rnaid ! 
And with such lowly tones she prayed. 
SShe might be sent without delay 
Home to her father's mansion. 

'* Nay : 
Nay, by my soul I" said Leoline. 
*' Ho ! Bracy, the bard, the charge be tliine ! 
Go thou, with music sweet and loud, 
And take two steeds with trappings proud. 
And take the youth whom thou lov'st best 
To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, 
And clothe you both in solemn vest. 
And over the mountains haste along, 
Lest wandering folk, that are abroad. 
Detain you on the valley road. 
And when he has crossed the Irthing flood, 
My merry bard ! he hastes, he hastes 
Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood, 
And reaches soon that castle good 
Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes. 

'* Bard Bracy ! banl Bracy I your horses are fleet. 

Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet, 

More loud than your horses' echoing feet ! 

And loud and loud to Lord Roland call, 

Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall ! 

Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free — 

Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 

He bids thee come without delay 

With all thy numerous array ; 

And take thy lovely daughter home : 

And he will meet thee on the way 

With all his numerous array 

White with their panting palfreys' ibam; 

And by mine honor I I will say. 

That 1 rej)ent me of the day 

When I spake words of fionje disdain 

To Roland de Vaux of Tryennainu !— 


— For since that evil hour hath flown. 
Many a summer^s Bun hath shone ; 
Yet ne'er found I a friend again 
Like Roland do Vaux of Tr}'ennaine. 


The lady fell, and clasped his knees, 

Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowinp ; 

And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, 

His gracious hail on all bestowing ! — 

" Thy words, thou sire of Christ abel. 

Are sweeter than my harp can tell ; 

Yet might I gain a boon of thee, 

This day my journey should not be, 

So strange a dream hath come to ine ; 

That I had vowed with music loud 

To clear yon wood from thing unblest. 

Warned by a vision in my rest ! 

For in my sleep I saw that dove. 

That gentle bird, whom thou dost love. 

And call'st by thy own daughter's name— > 

Sir Leoline ! I saw the same 

Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan. 

Among the green herbs in the forest alone. 

Which when I saw and when I heard, 

I wonder'd what might ail the bird ; 

For nothing near it could I see, 

Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old tree 

*' And in my dream methought I went 
To search out what mieht there be found ; 
And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, 
That thus lay fluttering on the ground. 
I went and peered, and could descry 
No cause for her distressful cry : 
But yet for her dear lady's sake 
I stooped, methought, the dove to take, 
When lo ! I saw a bright green snake 
Coiled around its wings and neck, 
Green as the herbs on which it couched. 
Close bv the dove's its head it cn>uchud : 


And with the dove it heaves and stiTB, 
Swelling its neck aa she swelled hers ! 
1 woke ; it was the midnight huiir, 
The clock was echoing in the tower ; 
But though my slumber was gone by. 
This dream it would not ptiss away — 
It seems to live upon my eye ! 
And thence I vowed this Beir-samo day, 
With music strong and saintly sung 
To wander through the forest hare, 
Lest aught unholy loiter there." 

Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while. 

Half-listening heard him with a smilo ; 

Then turned to Lady Gerald inc. 

His eyes made up of wonder and love ; 

And said in courtly accenli fine, 

" Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove 

With arms more strong than harp or song. 

Thy sire and I will crush the snake !" 

He kissed her forehead as he spake, 

And Geraldine. in maiden wise, 

Casting down her large bright eyes, 

With blushing check and courtesy tine 

She turned her from Sir Lcoline ; 

Softly gathering up her train, 

That o'er her right arm fell again ; 

And folded her arms across her chest. 

And couched her head upon her breast. 

And looked asksnce at Christabel — 

Jesu JIaria, shield huT well ! 

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, 
And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, 
Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, 
And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread. 
At Christabel sho looked askance ! — 
One moment — and the sight was fled 1 
But Chrialnbel in dixzv tranoe 
,. vri, ■ M 


Stumbling on the unBteady ground 
Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound ; 
And Geraldine again turned round, 
And like a thing that sought relief, 
Full of ivonder and full of grief, 
She rolled her large bright eyes divine 
Wildly on Sir Leoline. 

K The maid, alas ! her thoughts are gone 
She nothing sees — ^no sight but one ! 
The maid, devoid of guile and sin, 
1 know not how, in fearful wise 
So deeply had she drunken in 
That look, those shrunken serpent eyes. 
That all her features were resigned 
To this sole image in her mind ; 
And passively did imitate 
That look of dull and treacherous hate ! 
And thus she stood, in dizzy trance, 
Still picturing that look askance 
With forced imconscious sympathy 

Full before her father's view 

As far as such a look could be, 
In eyes so innocent and blue ! 
And when the trance was o*er, the maid 
Paused awhile, and inly prayed : 
Then falling at the Baron's feet, 
" By my mother's soul do I entreat 
That thou this woman send away !" 
She said : and more she could not say : 
For what she knew she could not tell, 
O'er-mastered by the mighty spell. 

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild. 
Sir Leoline ? Thy only child 
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride. 
So fair, so innocent, so mild ; 
The same, for whom thy lady died I 
by the pangs of her dear mother 
Think thou no evil of thy child ! 
For her. and thee, ani fur no other 


She prayed the moment ere she died : 
Prayed that the babe for whom she died, 
Might prove her dear lord*8 joy and pride ! 
That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled, 

Sir Leoline ! 
And wouldst thou wrong thy only child. 
Her child and thine ? 

Within the Baron's heart and brain 

If thoughts, like these, had any share, 

They only swelled his rage and pain. 

And did but work confusion there. 

His heart was cleft with pain and rage. 

His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wiliL 

Dishonored thus in his old age ; 

Dishonored by his only child, 

And all his hospitality 

To the wrong'd daughter of his friend 

By more than woman's jealousy 

Brought thus to a disgraceful end — 

He rolled his eye with stern regard 

Upon the gentle minstrel bard, 

And said in tones abrupt, austere—- 

" Why, Bracy I dost thou loiter here ? 

I bade thee hence !" The bard obeyed ; 

And turning from his own sweet maid. 

The aged knight, Sir Leoline, 

Led forth the lady Geraldine ! 


A LITTLE child, a limber elf, 
Singing, dancing to itself, 
A fairy thing with red round cheeks, 
That always finds, and never seeks, 
Makes such a vision to the sight 
As fills a father's eyes with light ; 
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 
Upon his heart, that he at last 



Itlust needs express his love's excess 
With words of unmeant bitterness. 
Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 
Thoughts so all unlike each other ; 
To mutter and mock a broken charm. 
To dally ivith wrong that does no harm 
Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 
At each wild word to feel within 
A sweet recoil of love and pity. 
And what, if in a world of sin 
(0 sorrow and shame should this be trud !) 
Such giddiness of heart and brain 
Comes seldom save from rage and pain, 
80 talks as it's most used to do. 


'Epug uei ?M?.i]dpoc iraipog. 

In many ways doth the full heart reveal 

The presencf of the love it would conceal ; 

But in far more th* estranged heart lets know 

Tlie absence of the love, which yet it (ain would show 



** One word with two meaniogs is the traitor's shield aod shaft : and a 
tlit toD^e be his blazon I" Caueatian Pnmerb, 

" The Sun is not yet risen, 

But the dawn lies red on the dew : 

Lord Julian has stolen from the hunters away, 

Is seeking. Lady, for you. 

Put on your dress of green. 

Your buskins and your quiver ; 
Lord Julian is a hasty man, 

Long waiting brook'd he never. 
I dare not doubt him, that he means 

To wed you on a day, 
Your lord and master for to be, 

And you his lady gay. 
Lady I throw your book aside ! 

I would not that my Lord should ohide." 

Thus spake Sir Hugh the vassal knight 

To Alice, child of old Du Clos, 
As spotless fair, as airy light 

As that moonshiny doe, 
The gold star on its brow, her sire's ancestral crest ! 
For ere the lark had lefl his nest. 

She in the garden bower below 
Sate loosely wrapt in maiden white. 
Her face half drooping from the sight, 

A snow-drop on a tufl of snow ! 
close your eyes, and strive to see 
The studious maid, with book on knee, — 

Ah I earliest-opened flower ; 
While yet with keen unblunted light 
The morning star shone opposite 

The lattice of her bower — 


Alone of all the starry host, 

As if in prideful scorn 
Of flight and fear he stay*d behind, 

To brave th' advancing morn. 

! Alice could read passing well, 
And she was conning then 

Dan Ovid's mazy tale of loves, 
And gods and beasts, and men. 

The vassal's speech, his taunting vein, 
It thriird like venom thro' her brain ; 

Yet never from the book 
She rais*d her head, nor did she deign 

The knight a single look. 

** Off, traitor friend ! how dar'st thou fix 

Thy wanton gaze on me ? 
And why, against my earnest suit, 

Does Julian send by thee ? 

" Go, tell thy Lord, that slow is sure : 
Fair speed his shafts to-day ! 

1 follow here a stronger lure, 

And chase a gentler prey.'* 

She said : and with a baleful smile 

The vassal knight reel'd off^ — 
Like a huge billow from a bark 

Toil'd in the deep sea-trough, 
That shouldering sideways in mid plunges 

Is travers'd by a flash. 
And staggering onward, leaves the ear 

With dull and distant crash. 

And Alice sate with troubled mieu 
A moment ; for the scoff* was keen 

And thro' her veins did shivei ! 
Then rose and donned her dress of green. 

Her buskins and her quiver. 


There Btande the flow'ring may-thorn tre« I 
From thro' the veiling mist you see 

The black and shadowy stem ; — 
Smit by the mn the mist in glee 
Diuolvea to lightMme jewelry — 

Each bloBEom hath ita gem '. 

With tear-drop glittering to a smile, 
The gay maid on the garden-elile 

Mimics the hunter's shout. 
' Hip ! Florian, hip I To horse, to horse ! 

Go, bring the palfrey out. 

" My Julian's out with all his clan, 

And, bonny boy, you wis, 
For Julian is a hasly man, 

Who comes lote, comes amiss." 

Now Floiiau was a stripling squire, 

A gallant boy o{ Spain, 
That tossed his head in joy and pride. 
Behind hie Lady fair lo ride, 

But blushed to hold her train. 

The huntress is in her dress ol'green^— 
And forth thuy go, she with her bow. 

Her buskins and her quiver ! — 
The w|uiTe — no younger e'er was seen ■■ 
With restlesa arm and laughing een, 

He makes his javelin quiver. 

And had not Ellen stay'd tlio race. 
And Btopp'd to see a moment's space. 

The whole great globe of light 
iiive the last parting kiss-like UiiicU 
To the eastern ridge, it lack'd not lancb 

They had o'er ta' en the knight. 

It chanced that up the eovert lane. 
Where Julian wailing stood, 


A. neighbor knight pricked on to join 
The huntsmen in the wood. 

And with him must Lord Julian go, 

Tho' with an anger'd mind : 
Betroth 'd not wedded to his bride, 
In vain he sought, 'twixt shame and pride. 

Excuse to stay behind. 

He bit his lip, he wrung his glove, 
He looked around, he look'd above, 

But pretext none could find or frame ! 
Alas ! alas I and well-a-day I 
It grieves me sore to think, to say, 
That names so seldom meet with Love, 

Yet Love wants courage without a name ! 

Straight from the forest's skirt the trees 
0*er-branching, made an aisle, 

Where hermit old might pace and chant 
As in a minster's pile. 

From underneath its leafy screen, 

And from the twilight shade. 
You pass at once into a green, 

A green and lightsome glade. 

And there Lord Julian sate on steed ; 

Behind him, in a round. 
Stood knight and squire, and menial train 
Against the leash the greyhounds strain ; 

The horses paw'd the ground. 

When up the alley green. Sir Hugh 

Spurr'd in upon the sward, 
And mute, without a word, did he 

Fall in behind his lord. 

Lord Julian tuni*d his steed half round .* 
" What ! doth not Alice deign 

To accept your loving convoy, knight ? 

Or doth she fear our woodland sleight, 
And joins us on the plain ?*' 


With Uifled ton« the knight replied, 
And look'd askance on either side, — 

" Nay, let the hunt proceed I — 
The Lady's message that I bear, 
I guess would soaully please your ear, 

And less deserves your heed. 

" Fou sent betimes. Not yet unharr'd 

I found the middle door ; — 
Two itirrerfl only met my eyes. 

Fair Alice, and one more. 

" I came unlook'd for : and, it teemed. 

In an unwelcome hour ; 
And found the daughter of Du Clos 

Within the latlic'd bower. 

" But hush ! the rest may wait. If lost, 

No great loss, 1 divine ; 
And idle words will better suit 

\ fair maid's lips than mine." 

" God's wrath ! speak out, man," Jnlian cried, 

O'ermaster'd by the midden smsrt ; — 
And feigning wrath, sharp, blunt, atid rudo. 
The knight his subtle shift pursued. — 
" Scowl not at mo ; command my skill, 
To lure your hawk back, if you will, 
But not a woman's heart. 

" ' Go 1 (said sbe) tell him, — slow is sure , 

Fair speed his iliafla to-day ! 
1 follow bere a stronger lure, 

And chase a gentler prey.' 

" The game, pardie, was full in ught. 
That then did, if I saw aright. 

The fair dame's eyes engage ; 
For turning, as I took my ways, 
I uw them lix'd with steadfast gut 
Full on hnr wanton page'" 


The last word of the traitor knight 
It had but entered Julian's ear, — 
From two overarching oaks between, 
With glist'ning helm-like cap is seen, 
Borne on in giddy cheer, 

A youth, that ill his steed can guide ; 
Yet with reverted face doth ride, 

As answering to a voice, 
That seems at once to laugh and chide—- 
'* Not mine, dear mistress," still ho cried, 

" 'Tis this mad filly's choice." 

With sudden bound, beyond the boy. 
See ! see ! that face of hope and joy, 

That regal front ! those cheeks aglow ! 
Tliou needed'st but the crescent sheen, 
A quiver*d Dian to have been, 

Thou lovely child of old Da Clos ! 

Dark us a dream Lord Julian stood. 
Swift as a dream, from forth the wood, 

Sprang on the pli<rhted Maid I 
With fatal aim, and frantic force. 
The shaft was hurl'd I — a lifeless corse, 
Fair Alice from her vaulting horse, 

Lies bleed iiij; ou ihe jrlade. 


Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn ? 
Where may the grave of that good man be ? — 
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellya, 
Under the twigs of a young birch-tree I 
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear. 
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year. 
And whistled and roared in the winter alone. 
Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown.—- 
The Knight's bcues are dust. 
And his good sword rust ; — 
His soul is with the saints, I trust 




Earth ! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the 

llaij Goddess, thrice hail ! Blest be thou ! and, blessing, I 

hymn thee ! 
Forth, ye sweet sounds ! from my harp, and my voice shall float 

on your surges — 
Soar thou alofl, my soul ! and bear up my song on thy pinions 

Travelling the vale with mine eyes — green meadows and lake 
with green island, 

Dark in its basin of rock, and the bare stream flowing in bright- 

Thrilled with thy beauty and love in the wooded slope of the 

Here, great mother, I lie, thy child, with his head on thy bosom ! 

Play fill the spirits of noon, that rushing soft through tliy tresses. 

Green-haired goddess ! refresh me ; and hark ! as they hurry or 

Fill the pause of my harp, or sustain it with musical murmurs. 

Into my being tliou murmurcst joy, and tenderest sadness 

Sbedd*st thou, like dew, on my heart, till tlie joy and the heav- 
enlv sadness 

Pour themselves forth from my heart in tears, and the liymn of 

Earth ! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the 

Sister thou of the stars, and beloved by the sun, the rejoicer I 

Guardian and friend of the moon, Earth, whom the cometa 
forget not. 

Yea, in the measureless distance wheel round and again they be- 
hold thee ! 

Padeless and yonng (and what if the latest birth of creation ?) 

I>ridc and consort of Heaven, that looks down upon thve en- 
amored ! 

Say, mysteriouB Earth ! say, great mother and goddess. 

Was it not well with thee then, when first Ihy lap was iingirdled, 


Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he wooed thee ftnd 
won thee ! 

Fair was thy blush, the fairest and first of the blushes of mom- 


Deep was the shudder, Earth ! the throe of thy Mlf-retention : 

Inly thou strovest to flee, and didst seek thyself at thy centre ! 

Mightier far was the ]oy of thy sudden resilience ; and forthwith 

Myriad myriads of lives teemed forth from the mighty embrace 

Thousand-fold tribes of dwellers, impelled by thousand-fold in- 

Filled, as a dream, iiie wide waiters ; the rivers sang on their 

channels ; 
Laughed on their shores the hoarse seas ; the yearning ocean 

swelled upward ; 
Young life lowed through the meadows, the woods, and the echo 

ing mountains, 
Wandered bleating in valleys, and warbled on blossoming branches. 


0, WHAT a life is the eye ! what a strange and inscrutable es 

sence 1 
Him, that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that warms him , 
Him that never beheld the swelling breast of his mother ; 
Him that smiled in his gladness as a babe that smiles in its slum 

ber ; 
Even for him it exists ! It moves and stirs in its prison ! 
Lives with a separate life : and — *' Is it a spirit ?** he murmurs : 
** Sure, it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only a language !*' 


UlTER the song, my soul ! the flight and return of Mohammed, 
Prophet and priest, who scatter'd abroad both evil and blessing, 
Huge wasteful empires founded and hallow'd slow persecution, 
Soul withering, but crush'd the blasphemous rites of the Pagan 
And idolatrous Christians. — For veiling the Gospel of Jesus, 
They, the be^t corrupting, had made it worse than the vilfwt. 


Wherefore Heaven decreed th' enthusiaHt wamoT of Mecca, 
Choosing good from iniquity mther than evil from goodnew. 
Loud the tumult in Mecca suTronndiiig the fane of the idol ;- 
Naked and prostrate the priesthood were laid — the people v 

mad shouts 
Thundering now, and now with saddeHt ululation 
Flew, as over the channel of rock-stone the ruinous river 
Shatters its waters abreast, auJ in mazy uproar bewilder'd, 
Rushes dividiious all — all rushing impetuous onward. 


Hear, my beloved, an old Milesian story 1 — 
High, and embosom'd in congregated laurels, 
Gtimmer'd a temple upon a breezy headland ; 
In the dim distance amid the skyey billows 
Rose a fair island ; the god of flocks had plac'd it. 
From the far shore* of the bleak resounding island 
Oft by the moonlight a httte boat came floating, 
Came to the sea-cave beneath the breezy headland, 
Where amid myrtles a pathway stole in mazes 
Up to the groves of the high embosoin'd temple. 
There in a thicket of dedicated roses, 
Oft did a priestess, as lovely as a vision. 
Pouring her soul to the son of Cythcrea, 
Pray him to hover around the slight canoe-boat. 
And with invisible pilotage to guide it 
Over the dusk wave, until the nightly sailor 
flhivering willi ecstasy sank upon her bosom. 



A 80L1I.0QUY. 

Unchanged within to bcc all changed without 
Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt. 
Yet why at others' wanings should'st thou fret ? 
Then only might'st thou feel a just regret. 


Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy. light 

In selfish forethought of neglect and slight, 

wiselier then, from feehle yearnings freed, 

While, and on ^'hom, thou may'st — shine on 1 Qor heed 

"Whether the object by reflected light 

Heturn thy radiance or absorb it quite : 

And though thou notest from thy safe recess 

Old friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air. 

Love them for what they are ; nor love them less. 

Because to thee they are not what they were. 



A LOVELY form there sate beside my bed. 
And such a feeding calm its presence shed, 
A tender love so pure from earthly leaven 
That I unnethe the fancy might control, 
Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven, 
Wooing its gentle way into my soul I 
But ah I the change — It had not stirr*d, and yet — 
Alas ! that change how fain would I forget ! 
That shrinkmg back, like one that had mistook ! 
That wear}', wandering, disavowing look I 
'Twas all another, feature, look, and frame. 
And still, methought, I knew, it was the same ! 


This riddling tale, to what does it belong ? 
Is't history ? vision ? or an idle song ? 
Or rather say at once, within what space 
Of time this wild disastrous change took place ? 


Call it a moment's work (and such it seems) 
This tale's a fragment from the life of dreams ; 
But say, that years matur'd the silent strife, 
And 'tis a record from the dream of life. 


All look and likeness caught from earth. 
All accident of kin and birth, 
Hnd pass'd away. There was no traoe 
or aught on that illumined face, 
UpTais'd beneath the rifted stone 
But of oue spirit all ber own ; — 
fjhe, she herself) and only she. 
Shone thro' her body visibly. 


All I^ature seems at work. Slugs leave their laJT— 

Tlic hues are stirring — birds are on the wing — 

And Winter slumbering in the open air, 

Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring ! 

And 1, the while, the sole unbusy thing, 

Not honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. 

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, 
Hare (raced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. 
Bloom, ye amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may. 
For mo ye bloom not '. Crliilc, rich streams, away I 
With lips unbrighteued, wroathless brow, I stroll : 
And would you learn the spells that drowse my sonl * 
Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve. 
And hope without au object cannot live. 


Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying, 

Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — 

Both were mine ! Life went a. maying 

With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 

When I was young ! 
When I was young ? — Ah, woful when ! 
Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and TheQ ! 


This breathing house not built with hands, 
This body that does me grievous wrong, 
0*er aery clifis and glittering sands, 
How lightly then it flashed along : — 
Like those trim skifls, unknown of yore, 
On winding lakes and rivers wide, 
That ask no aid of sail or oar, 
That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 
Naught cared this body for wind or weathex 
When Youth and I liv*d in*t together. 

Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; 
Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
! the joys, that came down shower-like. 
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 

Ere I was old. 
Ere I was old ? Ah woful Ere, 
Which tells me. Youth's no longer here ! 

Youth I for years so many and sweet, 
'Tis known, that Thou and I were one, 
ril think it but a fond conceit — 

It cannot be, that Thou art gone ! 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd : — 
And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
What strange disguise hast now put on. 
To make believe, that Thou art gone ? 

1 see these locks in silvery slips, 
This drooping gait, this altered size : 
But springtide blossoms on thy lips, 
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes I 
Life is but thought : so think J will 
That Youth and I are house-mates still. 

Dew-drops are the gems of morning. 
But the tears of mournful eve ! 
Where no hope is, life's a warning 
That only serves to make us grieve. 

When we are old : 
That only serves to make us grieve 
With oft and tedious taking-leave. 



Like some poor nigh-related guest, 
That may not rudely be dismist. 
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, 
And tells the jest without the smile. 


My eyes make pictures, when they are shut : — 

I see a fountain, large and fair, 
A willow and a ruined hut. 

And thee, and me and Mary there. 
3 Mary ! make thy gentle lap our pillow ! 
Bend o*er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow ! 

A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed, 

And that and summer well agree : 
And lo ! where Mary leans her head, 
Two dear names carved upon the tree ! 
And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow : 
Our sister and our friend will both be here to-morrow 

Twag day I But now few, large, and bright 

The stars are round the crescent moon i 
And now it is a dark warm night. 
The balmiest of the month of June ! 
A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting 
Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain 

ever— ever be thou blest I 

For dearly, Asra, love I thee I 
This brooding warmth across my breast, 
This depth of tranquil bliss — ah me ! 
Fount, tree, and shed are gone, I know not whither. 
But in one quiet room wo throe are still together. 

The shadows dance upon the wall. 

By the still dancing fire-flames made ; 
And now they slumber, moveless all ! 
And now they melt to one deep shade ! 
But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee : 
I dream thee wi^h mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee I 


Thine eyelMh on my cheek doth play — 

'Tis Mary's hand upon my hrow ! 
But let me check this tender lay 

Which none may hear hut she and thou * 
Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming, 
Murmur it to yourselves, ye tviro heloved women ! 


FAIR is Love's first hope to gentle mind ! 
As £ve*s first star thro' fleecy cloudlet peeping ; 
And sweeter than the gentle south-west wind, 
O'er willowy meads and shadow'd waters creeping ; 
And Ceres' golden fields ; — the sultry hind 
Meets it with hrow uplift, and stag's his reaping. 


I ASKED my fair one happy day, 
What I should call her in my lay ; 

By what sweet name from Home or Greece ; 
Lalage, Neaera, Chloris, 
Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, 

Arethusa or Lucrece. 

*' Ah !" replied my gentle fair, 

*' Beloved, what are names but air ? 

Choose thou whatever suits the line ; 
Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, 
Call me Lalage or Doris, 

Only, only call me Thine."* 


Where true Love bums Desire is Love's pure flame ; 
It is the reflex of our earthly frame, 
Th.'jt takes its meaning from the nobler part. 
And but translates the language of the heart. 

* See LeasiDg's lieder. Die Namea 



Her attachment may difier from yours in degree, 

Provided they are both of one kind ; 
But Friendship how tender so ever it be 

Gives no accord to Love, however refin*d. 

Love, that meets not with Love, its true nature revealing, 

Grows asham'd of itself, and demurs : 
If you can not lifl hers up to your state of feeling, 

You must lower down yDur state to hers. 


That Jealousy may rule a mind 
Where Love could never be 

I know ; but ne'er expect to find 
Love without Jealousy. 

She has a stran^o cast in her ee, 
A swart sour-visagcd maid — 

But yet Love's own twin-sister she 
His hou«r-mate and his shade. 

Ask for li'JT and she'll be denied : — 
Wh».t then ? they only mean 

Their mistress has lain down to sleep, 
Ard can't just then be seen. 




Nay, dearest Anna I why so grave ? 

I laid, you had no soul, 'tis true ! 
For what you are, you can not have : 

'Tis I, that have one since I first had you ! 


I HAVE heard of reasons manifold 
Why Love must needs he hlind, 

But this the hest of all I hold — 
His eyes are in his mind. 

What outward form and feature are 
He gxiesseth hut in part ; 

But what within is good and fair 
He seeth with the heart. 



OB. ANNO DOM. 1088. 

No more *twixt conscience staggering and the Pope 
Soon shall I now hefore my God appear, 
By him to he acquitted, as I hope ; 
By him to he condemned, as I fear. — 


Lynx amid moles ! had I stood hy thy hed, 

Be of good cheer, meek soul ! I would have said : 

I see a hope spring from that humhle fear. 

All are not strong alike through storms to steer 

Right onward. What ? though dread of threatened death 

And dungeon torture made thy hand and hreath 

Inconstant to the truth within thy heart ? 

That truth, from which, through fear, thou twice didst start, 

Fear haply told thee, was a learned strife, 

Or not so vital as to claim thy life : 

And myriads had reached Heaven, who never knew 

Where lay the difierence 'tiiixt the false and true ! 

Ye, who secure *mid trophies not your own, 
Judge him who won them when he stood alone. 
And proudly talk of recreant Berengare — 
O first the age, and then the man compare ! 
That age how dark ! congenial minds how rare ! 


No host of firiendfl vith kindred zeal did bum ! 
No throbbing hearts awaited his return ! 
Prostrate alike when prince and peasant fell, 
He only disenchanted from the spell, 
Like the weak worm that gems the starless night, 
Moved in the scanty circlet of his light : 
And was it strange if he withdrew the ray 
That did but guide the night-birds to their prey ? 

The ascending day-star with a bolder eye 
Hath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn ! 
Yet not for this, if wise, shall we decry 
The spots and struggles of the timid dawn ; 
J^st 80 we tempt th' approaching noon to scorn 
The mists and painted vapors of our morn. 






I NOTE the moods and feelings men betray, 

And heed them more than aught they do or say ; 

The lingering ghosts of many a secret deed 

Still-born or haply strangled in its birth ; 

These best reveal the smooth man's inward creed ! 

These mark the spot where lies the treasure Worth ! 

made up of impudence and trick, 

With cloven tongue prepared to hiss and lick, 
Rome's brazen serpent — boldly dares discuss 
The roasting of thy heart, brave John Hubs ! 
And with grim triumph and a truculent glee 
Absolves anew the Pope-wrought perfidy, 
That made an empire's plighted faith a lie, 
And fix'd a broad stare on the Devil's eye — 


(Pleas'd with tho ^ilt, yet envy-stung at heart 
To stand outmaster'd in his own black* art !) 


Enough of ! we*re agreed, 

Who now defends would then have done the deed. 
But who not feels persuasion's gentle sway, 
Who but must meet the profiered hand half-way 
When courteous 

POET. {Aside.) 
(Rome's smooth go-between !) 


Laments the advice that soured a milky queen — 

(For " bloody" all enlightened men confess 

An antiquated error of the press :) 

Who rapt by zeal beyond her sex's bounds, 

With actual cautery stanched the church's wounds * 

And tho' he deems, that with too broad a blur 

W^e damn the French and Irish massacre. 

Yet blames them both — and thinks the Pope might en 

What think you now ? Boots it with spear and shielo 

Against such gentle foes to take the field 

Whose beck'ning hands the mild Caduceus wield ? 


What think I now ? Ev'n what I thought before ;— 

What boasts tho' may deplore. 

Still I repeat, words lead me not astray 
When the shown feeling points a different way. 

Smooth can say grace at slander's feast, 

And bless each haut-gout cook'd by monk or priest , 

Leaves the full lie on 's gong to swell. 

Content with half-truths that do just as well ; 
But duly decks his mitred comrade's flanks, 
And with him shares the Irish nation's thanks ! 

So much for you, my Friend I who own a Church, 
And would not leave your mother in the lurch ! 


But wheo a liberal asks me what I think — 
Scar'd by the blood and soot of Cobbett's ink, 
And Jeffrey's glairy phlegm ami CoDnor'a foam. 
In search of some safe parable 1 roam — 
An emblem sometimes may comprise a tome ! 

Disclaimant of bis uoeaught grandsire's mood, 

I see n tiger lapping kitten's food : 

And who shall blame him that he purrs applause, 

When brother firindle pleads the good old cause ; 

And frisks his pretty tail, and half uiisbeathes bis clai 

Yet not the less, for modem lights unapt. 

1 trust the bolts and cross-bars of the laws 

More than the Protestant milk all newly lapt, 

Impearling a tame wild-cat's whisker'd jaws ! 


From hia brimstone bed at brenk of day 
A walking the Devil is gone, 

To visit his snug little farm the Earth, 
And see how his stock goes on. 

Over the hill and over the dale. 

And he went over the plain. 
And backward and forward ho switched his long tall 

As a gentleman switches his cane. 

And how then was the Devil dreat ? 

Oh 1 he was in his Sunday's best : 

His jacket was red and his breeches were blue. 

And there was a hole where the tail came throngh. 

He saw a Lawyer killing a viper 
Oa a dung-hill hard by hia own stable ; 


And the Deril smiled, for it pat him in mind 
Of Cain and his brother AheL 


He saw an Apothecary on a white horse 

Ride by on his vocations ; 
And the Devil thought of his old friend 

Death in the Revelations. 


He saw a cottage with a double coach-hoa8e» 

A cottage of gentility ; 
And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin 

Is pride that apes humility. 


He pcep'd into a rich bookseller's shop, 
Cluoth he ! "We are both of one college ! 

For I sate myself, like a cormorant, once 
Hard by the tree of knowledge.*'* 

* And all amid them Btood the tree of life 
High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit 
Of vegetable gold (query paper money :) and next to Life 

Our Death, the tree of knowledge, grew fast by. — 

♦ »»••♦ 

So clomb this first grand thief 

Thence up ho flew, and on the tree of life 

Sat like a cormorant. pab. lost, iv. 

The allegory here is so apt., that in a catalogue of Tmrious readings 
obtaine<l from collating the MSS. one might expect to find it noted, that 
for '*life'* OxL quid, habent, *' trade.'* Though indeed the trade, t. e. 
the bibliopolic^ so called Kat' l^oxv^'t may be regarded as Life sensu emi- 
nentiori ; a suggestion, which I owe to a young retailer in the houery lin<», 
who on hearing a description of the net profits, dinner parties, country 
houses, ct**., of the trade, exclaimed, " Ay 1 that's what I call Life now I"— 
This " Life, our Deatli," is thus happily contrasted with the fruits of au- 
ih<Hvhip. — Sic nos non nobis mellificamus apes. 

Of this poem, which with the Fire, Famine, and Slaughter, first appeared 
in the Morning Post, the 1st, 2d, 3d, 9th, and 16th stanzas were dictated 
by Mr. Southey. See Apol<»getic Preface, p. 221. 

If any one shcmld ask who General meant, the Author begi leare 


Down the ri»er did glide, with wind and wilh tide, 

A pig with vast celerity ; 
And the Devil looked wise as he saw how the while, 
It cuts its own throat. " There I" quoth ho wilh a Nuile, 

" Goes Englaad'e cammercial prospeiily." 

As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he n 

A Bolilary cell ; 
And the Devil wag pleased, for it gave biir 
For improving his prisons in Hell. 

He saw a Turnkey in a trice 
Unfetter a troublesome blade ; 

"Nimbly," quoth he, "do the iingera n 
If a man he but used to bis trade." 

He saw the same Turnkey unfetter a man 

With but little expedition. 
Which put him in mind of the long debate 

On the Slave-trade abolition. 

He saw an old acquaintance 

As he passed by a Methodist meeting ;- 
She holds a consecrated key. 

And the Devil nods her a greeting- 

She turned up her liose, and said, 
"Avaunt! my name's Religiou," 

to iofbrm him, that be did once Kt a rol-fnced pervm ia a dream vWm 
by the dr*w he took for a Oeoeral ; but he might have b««n mittaken. pnJ 
moat eertalnlj he did not hear any Domes mentioned. In simplo verity 
the aDthor never meant any one, or indeed any thing but tii put a conclud 
Infi ■lonia bi his dng^reL 


/ nd she looked to Mr. 

And leered like a love-sick pigeon. 


He saw a certain minister 

(A minister to his mind) 
Go up into a certain House, 

With a majority behind. 


The Devil quoted Genesis, 

Like a very learned clerk, 
How ** Noah and his creeping things 

Went up into the Ark." 


He took from the poor, 

And he gave to the rich. 

And he shook hands with a Scotchman, 

For he was not afraid of the 

* * * « 


General burning face 

He saw with consternation, 
And back to hell his way did he take, 
For the Devil thought by a slight mistake 

It was general conflagration. 


See the apology for the " Rre, Famine, and Slaughter," p. 221. This it 
the first time the author ever published these lines. He would hare been 
glad, had they perished ; but they have now been printed repeatedly in mag* 
asines, and he is told that the verses will not perish. Here, therefore, 
they are owned, with a hope that they will be taken — as assuredly they 
were composed — in mere sport. 

The Devil believes that the Jiord will come. 
Stealing a march without beat of drum, 
About the same time that he came last. 
On au old Christmas-day in a snowy blast : 


Till he bids the tnimp sound, neither body nor soul stirs> 
For the dead men's heads have slipt under their bolsters. 

Oh I ho ! brother Bard, in our church- yard, 

Both beds and bolsters are soft and green ; 

tSave one alone, and that's of stone, 

And under it lies a Counsellor keen. 
'Twould be a square tomb, if it were not too long. 
And 'tis fenced round with irons sharp, spearlike, and strong 

This fellow from Aberdeen hither did skip, 
With a waxy face, and a blubber lip, 
And a black tooth in front, to show in part 
What was the color of his whole heart. 

This Counsellor sweet. 

This Scotchman complete, 
(The Devil scotch him for a snake) 
I trust he lies in his grave awake. 

On the sixth of January, 
When all around is while with snow. 
As a Cheshire yeoman's dairy ; 
Brother Bard, ho ! ho ! 
Believe it, or no, 
On that stone tomb to you I'll show 
Two round spaces void of snow. 
I swear by our Knight, and his forefathers* souls. 
That in size and shape they are just like the holef 
In the house of privity 
Of that ancient family. 
On thobe two places void of snow, 
There have sate in the night for an hour or so. 
Before sunrise and afler cock-crow. 
He kicking his heels, she cursing her corns. 
All to the tune of the wind in their horns. 
The Devil, and his Grannam, 
With a snow-blast to fan 'em ; 
Expecting and hoping the trumpet to blow. 
For they are cock-sure of the fellow below. 




WiiAT though the chilly wide-mouth'cl quaokiiig ehonM 

From the rank swamps of murk Review-land eroak : 

So was it, neighbor, in the times before us, 

When Momus, throwing on his Attic cloak, 

Komped with the Graces ; and each tickled Mase 

(That Turk, Dan Phcebus, whom bards call divine, 

Was married to — at least, he kept — all nine) 

Fled, but still with reverted faces ran ; 

Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to excuse. 

They had allured the audacious Greek to use. 

Swore they mistook him for their own good man. 

This Momus — Aristophanes on earth 

Men called him — maugre all his wit and worth 

Was croaked and gabbled at. How, then, should you, 

Or I, Iriend, hope to 'scape the skulking crew ? 

No ! laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee, 

*' I hate the quacking tribe, and they hate me !" 


Since all that beat about in Nature's range, 
Or veer or vaniah ; why shouldst thou remain 
The only constant in a world of change, 

yearning thought ! that liv'st but in the brain ? 
Call to the hours, that in the distance play, 

The faery people of the future day — 

Fond thought ! not one of all that shining swarm 

Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath, 

Till when, like strangers sheltVing from a storm, 

Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death ! 

Yet still thou haunt^st me ; and though well I see, 

She is not thou, and only thou art she, 

Still, still as though some dear embodied good, 

Some living love before my eyes there stood 

With answering look a ready ear to lend, 

1 mourn to thee and say — *' Ah ! loveliest friend I 


That this the meed of all my toils might be, 
To have a home, aa English home, and thee !" 
Vain repetition I Home and Thou are one. 
The peacefuU'st cot, the moon shall shine upon, 
Lulled by the thrush, and wakened by the lark, 
Without thee were but a becalmed bark. 
Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wide 
Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside. 
And art thou nothing ? Such thou art, as when 
The woodman winding westward up the glen 
At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maz9 
The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze. 
Sees full before him, gliding without tread. 
An image* with a glory round its head ; 
The enamored rustic worships its fair hues, 
Nor knows he makes the shadow he pursues I 


Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no, 
No question was asked me — it could not be so ! 
If the life was the question, a thing sent to try. 
And to live on be Yes ; what can No be ? to die. 

nature's answer. 

Is't returned, as Hwas sent ? Is't no worse for the wear ? 

Think first, what you are ! Call to mind what you were 1 

I gave you innocence, I gave you hope, 

Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope. 

Return you me guilt, letharg}', despair ? 

Make out the invent'ry ; inspect, compare ! 

Then die — if die you dare ! 

* Tliis phenomenon, -which the author lias himself experienced, and of 
which the reader may find a description in one of the earlier volumes of 
the Manchester Philosophical Transactions, is applied figuratively in the 
following passage of the Aids to Reflection. 

** Pindar's fine remark respecting the ditTercnt effects of music, on differ- 
ent characters, holds equally true of Genius ; as many as are not delighted 
by it are disturbed, perplexed, irritated. The beholder either recognizes 
it aa a projected form of his own being, that moves before him with a gloi^ 
round its bead, or reooils from it as a spectre.*' — AidM to JieJle€tion,'WoTkB, 
I p. 249. 



I 8KEM to have an indistinct recollection of having read either in one of 
the ponderous tomes of George of Venice, or in aome other oompilatioa from 
the uninspired Hebrew writers, an apologue or Rabbinical fnditioii to the 
following purpose : 

While our first parents stood before their offended Maker, and the last 
words of the sentence were jet sounding in Adam's ear, the guileful fidte 
serpent, a counterfeit and a usurper from the beginning, presumptuonslv 
took on himself the diaracter of advocate or mediator, and pretending to 
intercede for Adam, exclaimed : " Nay, Lord, in thj justice, not so I for the 
Man was the least in fault Rather let the Woman return at oDoe to the 
dust, and let Adam remain in this thj Paradise." And the word of the 
Most High answered Satan : " The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel 
Treacherous Fiend ! if with guilt like thine, it had been possible for thee 
to have the heart of a Man, and to feel the yearning of a human aonl for 
its counterpart, the sentence, which thou now oounsellest, should have been 
inflicted on thyself." 

The title of tlie following poem was suggested by a fact mentioned by 
LinnflBus, of a date-tree in a nobleman's garden which year after year had 
put forth a full show of blossoms, but never produced fruit, till a brandi 
from another date-tree had been conveved from a distance of some hundred 
leagues. The first leaf of the MS. from which the poem has been transcrib- 
ed, and which contained the two or three introductory stanzas, is wanting; 
and the author has in vain taxed his memory to repair the loss. But a rude 
draught of the poem contains the substance of the stanzas, and the reader 
is requested to receive it as the substitute. It is not impossible, that some 
congenial spirit, whose yeiu's do not exceed those of the author, at the 
time the poem was written, may find a pleasure in restoring the Lament 
to its original integrity by a reduction of the thoughts to the requisite 

Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun the mountain peaks arc 
the thrones of frost, through the absence of objects to reflect the 
rays. " What no one with us shares, seems scarce our own 
The presence of a one. 


The best belov'd, who loveth me the best, 

is for the heart, what the supporting air from within is for the 
hollow globe with its suspended car. Deprive J, of this, and all 
witbout, that would have buoyed it aloft even to the seat of the 
gods, becomes a burthen and crushes it into flatness. 


Tb) finer the sense for the beautiful and the lovely, aad the 
Ikirer and lovelier the object presented to the eeose ; the more 
exquiaite the individual'i capacity of joy, and the more ample his 
means and opportnaities of enjoyment, the more heavily vill he 
feel the ache of BolitarineflB, the more unBubstantial becomes the 
least spread aiound him. What matters it. whether in fact the 
viands and the ministering graces are shadowy or real, to him 
who has not hand to grasp nor arms to embrace them ? 

Imagination; honorable aims ; 

Free commune with the choir that can not die : 

SScienee and song; delight in little things, 

The buoyant child surviving in the man ; 

Fields, forests, ancient mountains, ocean, sky, 

With all their voices — dare I accuse 

My earthly lot as guilty of my spleen, 

Or call my destiny niggard I no ! no ! 

It is her largeness, and her overflow, 

Which being incomplete, disquieteth me bo ! 

For never touch of gladness stira ray heart, 

But tim'rously beginning to rejoice 

Like a blind Arab, that from sleep doth ^tart 

In lonesome tent, 1 listen tor thy Voice. 

Beloved 1 'tis not thine ; thou art not there ! 

Then melts the bubble into idle air. 

And wishing without hope I restlessly despair. 

The mother with anticipated glee 

Smiles o'er the child, that, standing by her chair 

And flatt'ning its round cheek upon her knee. 

Looks up, and doth its rosy lips pteparo 

To mock the coming Bounds. At that iiweet sight 

She hears her own voice with a new delight ; 

And if the babe perchance should lisp the notes aright. 



Then is she tenfold gladder than before ! 

But should disease or chance the darling take, 

What then avail those songs, which sweet of yore 

Were only sweet for their sweet echo's sake ? 

Dear maid ! no prattler at a mother's knee 

Was e'er so dearly prized as I prize thee : 

Why was I made for Love and Love denied to me ? 


Know'st thou the land where the pale citrons grow. 
The golden fruits in darker foliage glow ? 
Soft blows the i^ind that breathes from that blue sky ! 
Still stands the myrtle and the laurel high ! 
Know'st thou it well that land, beloved Friend ? 
Thither with thee, 0, thither would I wend I 



! IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease. 

Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies. 
To make the shifting clouds be what you please, 

Or let the easily persuaded eyes 
Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould 

Of a friend's fancy ; or with head bent low 
And cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold 

'Twixt crimson banks ; and then, a traveller, go 
From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous land I 

Or listening to the tide, with closed sight, 
Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand 

By those deep sounds possessed with inward light. 
Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee 

Rise to the sw3lling of the voiceful sea. 



'TwA9 my last vaking thought, how it could be, 
That thou, sweet frieDd, such an^ish shouldat endure ; 
When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and lie 
Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure, 

Melhought he fronted me with peering look 
Fix'd on my heart ; and read aloud in game 
The loves and griefs therein, as from a hook ; 
And uttered praise like one who wished to blamo. 

In every heart (quoth he) bliicc Adam's sin 
Two Founts there are, of suffering and of cheer ! 
That to let forth, and this to keep within ! 
But she, whose aspect 1 find imaged here. 

Of Pleasure only will to all dispense. 
That Fount alone unlock, by no distress 
Choked or turned inward, but still issue thence 
Unconquered cheer, persistent loveliness. 

As on the driving cloud the shiny bow, 
That gracious thing made up of tears and light. 
Mid the wild rack and rain that slants below 
Stand* smiling forth, unmoved and freshly bright ;— 

Aa though the spirits of all lovely flowers, 
Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown, 
Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers. 
Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down. 

Ev'n so. Eliza ! on that face of thine. 
On that benignant fare, whose look alone 
(The soul's transluoence thro' her crystal shrine !) 
Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own, 

A beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing, 
But with a silent charm compels the stern 


And tort'ring Genius of the bitter spring. 
To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn. 

"Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found 
In passion, spleen, or strife,) the fount of pain 
Overflowing beats against its lovely mound. 
And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain ? 

Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam 
On his raised lip, that aped a critic smile. 
Had passed : yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile, 
Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream ; 

Till audibly at length I cried, as though 
Thou had*st indeed been present to my eyes, 

sweet, sweet sufferer ; if the case be so, 

1 pray thee, be less good, less sweet, less- wise ! 

In every look a barbed arrow send, 
On those soft lips let scorn and anger live ! 
Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend ! 
Hoard for thyself the pain, thou wilt not give ! 




A PROBi compoeitiau. one Dot Id metre nt least, leenia prima iiae td 
require explaoatioa or apology. It va> written io th« year 1798, near , 
Nether Stowej, in Somersetiihire, at whieh place (unetum et unalHle 
noineul rich by so many usodationi Bod r«»llectiaaB) the author had 
taken up hii reeideaoe in order to oojoy the aociety sad cloee ueigbburhood 
of a dear and honored friend, T. Poule, Esq. The work vab to have beeu 
wrilteD in concert with another, whose nnnie is too Tcnernble within the 
precincts of genius to be unoeceesarilj brought into cooDcction witb such ■ 
trifle, and who was then residing at a small distance from Nelher Stowe]r. 
Hie title and subject were suggested by myself, who likewise drew out the 
scheme and the conleots Tor eaeh of the three books or cantos, of which 
the work was to eonaist. and wliich, the reader is to be informed, was to 
have been finished in one nij^htl My partner undertook the lirst eaoto: I 
the second : and whichever had done first, was to set about the third 
A]in<«t thirty years have passed by ; yet at this moment I can not witiiout 
Humething more than a smile moot the question which of the two things 
was the most impracticable, for a mind so eminently original to oompose 
another man's thoughts and fiuicied, or for a taste so austerely pure and 
simple t<i imitate the Death of Abel ) Methinks I see bis grand and noble 
countenance as st the momeot wheu having despatched my own portion of 
the task at full Sngcr-epeed, I hoHteunl to him with my manuseript — that 
look of humorous despondency liied on his ahnost blank sheet of paper, 
and then its silent mock-pit^nua admission of failure etruggliug witli the 
si-use of the exceeding ridiculousness of the whole scheme — which broke up 
in a laugh: and the Ancient Manner was written instead 

Years afterward, however, the draft of the plan and proposed incidents, 
and tlie portion executed, obtained favor in the eyes of more than one per- 
son, whoee judgment on a poetic work eould not but have weired with 
me. even though no parental partiality had been thrown into the same 
scale, as a make-weight: and I determined on commencing anew, and oam- 
poaing the whole in stanzas, and made sume progress in realizing thit 
iutcution, when adverse gales drove my bnrk oflf Ihe "Fortunate Isles"" of 
the Uuses; and then other and more monieutoui interests prompted a dif- 
ferent voyage, to Srmer anchorBge and a securer port. 1 have in vain 
tried to reeovcr the lines from the palimpsest tablet of my memory : and 1 
ou. Duly offer the iotroductorj stansa, which had been committed to writ 


log for the purpose of procuring a friend's judgment on the metres m • 

Encinctured v^'iih a twine of leaves^ 

That leafy twine his only dress 1 

A lovely Boy was plucking fruits, 

By moonlight, in a wilderness. * 

The moon was bright, the air was free. 

And fruits and flowers together grew 

On nmny a shrub and many a tree : 

And all put on a gentle hue, 

Hanging in the shadowy air 

Like a picture rich and rare. 

It was a climate where, they say. 

The night is more belov'd than day. 

But who that beauteous Boy boguird. 

That beauteous Boy to linger here t 

Alone, by night, a little child. 

In place so silent and so wild — 

Has he no friend, no loving mother near t 


" A LITTLE further, my father, yet a little further, and w« 
shall come iuto the open moonlight." Their road vas through 
a forest of fir-trees ; at its entrance the trees stood at distances 
from each other, and the path was broad, aud the moonlight and 
the moonlight shadows reposed upon it, and ap[)eared quietly to 
inhabit that solitude. But soon the path wmded and became 
narrow ; the sun at high noon sometimes speckled, but never 
illumined it, and now it was dark as a cavern. 

** It is dark, my father 1' said Enos, ** but the path under 
our feet is smooth and soft, and we shall soon come out into the 
open moonlight." 

" Lead on, my child I'' said Cain : *' guide me, little child !" 
And the innoceiit little child clasped a finger of the hand which 
had murdered ih^ righteous Abel, and he guided his father. 
" The fir branches drip upon thee, my son." ** Yea, pleasantly, 
father, for I ran fa;;t and eagerly to bring thee the pitcher and 
the cake, and my body is not yet cool. How happy the squir- 
rels are that feed on these fir-trees I they leap from bough to 
boo^h, and the old Si^uirrels play round their young ones in the 
nest. I clomb a tree yesterday at noon, my lather, that I 
might play with them hut they leaped away from the branches. 


even to the slender twigs did they leap, sud in a moment I 
beheld them on another tree. Why, my father, would they 
not play with me ? I would be good to thtsm as thou art good to 
mc : and I groaned to them even as thou groanest when thou 
flivest me to eat, and when thou coverest me at evening, and as 
often as I stand at thy knee and thine eyes look at me 7" Then 
Cain stopped, and stifling his groans lie sank to the earth, and 
the child Enos stood iu the darkness beside him. 

And Cain lifted up his voice and cried bitterly, and said, 
" The Mighty One that petseculeth me is on this side and on 
that ; he pureuoth my soul like the wind, like the sand-blast he 
passeth through me ; he is around me even as the air ! that 
I might bo utterly no more ! I desire to die — yea, the things that 
never had life, neither move they upon the earth — behold ! they 
seem precious to mine eyes. that a man might live without 
the breath of his nostrils. So 1 might abide in darkness, and 
blackness, and an empty space ! Yea, I would lie down, I would 
not rise, neither would I stir my limbs till I became as the rock 
in the den of the lion, on which the young lion resteth his head 
whilst he sleepeth. For the torrent tbat roareth far olT hath a 
voice : and the elouds in heaven look terribly on me ; the Mighty 
One who is againet me speaketh in the wind of the cedar grove ; 
«nd in silence am 1 dried up," Then Enos spake to his father, 
" Arise, my father, arise, we arc but a little way from the place 
where 1 found the cake and the pitcher." And Cain said, "How 
knowest thou?" and the child answered — "Behold the bare 
rocks are a few of thy strides distant from the forest ; and while 
even now thou wcrt lifting up thy voice, I heard the echo." 
Then the child took hold of his father, as if be would raise him : 
and Cain being faint and feeble rose slowly on his knees and 
pressed himself against the trunk of a fir, and stood upright and 
followed the child. 

The path wag dark till within three strides' length of its ter- 
mination, when it turned suddenly ; the thick blaok trees formed 
a low arch, and the moonlight appeared for a moment like a 
dazzling portal. Enos ran befure and stood in the open air ; and 
when Cain, his father, eiiiergeil from the darkness, the child was 
atTrighted. For the mighty limbs of Cain were wanted as by 
fire ; his hair was as the matted curls on the bison's forehead, 
and so glared his fierce and sullen eye beneath : and the blaelt 


abundant locks on either side, a rank and tangled mass, were 
stained and scorched, as though the grasp of a burning iron hand 
had striven to rend them ; and his countenance told in a strange 
and terrible language of agonies that had been, and were, and 
were still to continue to be. 

The scene around was desolate ; as far as the eye could reach 
it was desolate : the bare rocks faced each other, and left a long 
and wide interval of thin white sand. You might wander on 
and look round and round, and peep into the crevices of the 
rocks and discover nothing that acknowledged the influence of 
the seasons. There was no spring, no summer, no autumn : and 
the winter's snow, that would have been lovely, fell not on these 
hot rocks and scorching sands. Never morning lark had poised 
himself over this desert ; but the huge serpent oflen hissed there 
beneath the talons of the vulture, and the vulture screamed, his 
wings imprisoned within the coils of the serpent. The pointed 
and shattered summits of the ridges of the rocks made a rude 
mimicry of human concerns, and seemed to prophesy mutely of 
things that then were not ; steeples, and battlements, and ships 
with naked masts. As far from the wood as a boy might sling a 
pebble of the brook, there was one rock by itself at a small dis- 
tance from the main ridge. It had been precipitated there perhaps 
by the groan which the Earth uttered when our first father fell. 
Before you approached, it appeared to lie flat on the ground, but 
its base slanted from its point, and between its points and the 
sands a tall man might stand upright. It was here that Enos 
had found the pitcher and cake, and to this place he led his 
father. But ere they had reached the rock they beheld a human 
shape : his back was towards them, and thoy were advancing 
unperceived, when they heard him smite his breast and cry 
aloud, " Woe is me I woe is me I I must never die again, and 
yet I am perishing with thirst and hunger." 

Pallid, as the reflection of the sheeted lightning on the heavy- 
sailing night-cloud, became the face of Cain ; but the child Eno9 
took hold of the shaggy skin, his father's robe, and raised his 
eyes to his father, and listening, whispered, " Ere yet I could 
speak, I am sure, my father, that ^ heard that voice. Have 
not I often said that I remembered a sweet voice 1 my father I 
this is it :'' and Cain trembled exceedingly. The voice was sweet 
indaad but it was thin and querulous, like that of a feeble slave 


in miMry, ^ho deapaira altogether, yet cut not r«fraia himeeli 
from weeping and lamentation. And, behold I Enos glided for- 
ward, and creeping softly round the base of tha rook, Stood before 
the stranger, and looked up into his face. And the Shape shrieked, 
and turned round, and Cain beheld him, that his limbs and his 
face 'wera those of his brother Abel tvhom he had killed ! And 
Cain stood like one who struggles in hia steep because of the ex- 
ceeding terrible ness of a dream. 

Thus as he stood in silence and darkness of soul, the Shape fell 
at his feet, and embraced his knees, and cried out with a bitter 
outcry, " Thou eldest tiorn of Adam, whom E^e, my mother, 
brought forth, cease to torment me ! 1 was feeding my flocks in 
green pastures by the side of quiet rivers, and thou killedst me ; 
and now 1 am in misery," Then Cain closed his eyes, and hid 
them with his hands; and again ho opened his eyes, and looked 
around him, and said to Enos, " What beholdest thou ? Bidst 
thou hear a voice, my son ?" " Yes, my father, I beheld a man 
in unclean garments, and he uttered a sweet voice, full of lamen- 
tation." Then Cain raised up the Shape that was like Abel, and 
said : — " The Creator of oar father, who had respect unto thee 
and unto thy o^ering, wherefore hath he forsaken thee V Then 
the Shape shrieked a second time, and rent his garment, and his 
naked skin was like the white sands beneath their feet ; and he 
shrieked yet a third time, and threw himself on his face upon 
the sand that was black with the shadow of the rock, and Cain 
and Enos sat beside him ; the child by his right hand, and Cain 
by his left. They were all three nnder the rock, and within the 
shadow. The Shape that was like Ahel raised himself up, and 
spake to the child : " 1 know where the cold waters are, but I 
may not drink, wherefore didst thou then take away my pitcher ?" 
But Cain said, " Didst thou not find favor in the sight of the Lonl 
thy God V The Shape answered, " The Lord is God of the liv- 
ing only, the dead have another God." Then the child Enos 
lifted up his eyes and prayed ; but Cain rejoiced secretly in his 
heart. " Wretched shall they be all the days of their mortal 
life," exclaimed the Shape, " who sacrifice worthy and accepta- 
ble sacrifices to the God of the dead ; but after death their toil 
ceaseth. Woe is me, for 1 was well beloved by the God of tha 
living, and cruel wert thou, O my bmther, who didst snatch me 
away from his power and his dominion." Having uttered theaa 

•tfun, Ae irliaeled voimd, and oun 
had been attin^, and where Bnoaa 
hold of hie garment as he passed b 
And Cain stopped, and belioldin^r 1 
into the dark woods," and he walk 
and when he reached it the child t 
bold of his garment as he passed by, 
upon the ground : and Cain once mo 
" Abel, my brother, I would lament : 
within me is withered, and burnt up \ 
I pray thee, by thy flocks, and by thy 
rivers which thou lovedst, that thou te, 
Who is the God of the dead ? where d( 
what sacrifices are acceptable unto hiii 
have not been received ; I have pr£ 
heard ; and how can I be alHicted more 1 
Shape arose and answered, " that th 
aa I will have pity on thee. Follow 
bring thy child with thee !' 

And they three passed over the whit< 
silent aa the shadows. 



sadness, a peculiar melancholy, is wont to take 
possession of me alike in spring and in autumn. But in spring 
it is the melancholy of hope : in autumn it is the melancholy of 
resignation. As I was journeying on foot through the Apcnnine, 
I fell in with a pilgrim in whom the spring and the autnmn and 
the melancholy of both seemed to have combined. In his dis- 
course there were the freshness and the colors of April : 

Qual ramicel a ramo, 
Tal du peosier pensicro 
Id lui gcrinogliavo. 

But as I gazed on his whole form and figure, I bethought me ol 
the not unlovely decays, both of age and of the late season, in 
the stately elm, after the clusters have been plucked from its en- 
twining vines, and the vines are as bands of dried withies around 
its Intnk and branches. Even so there was a memory on his 
smooth and ample forehead, which blended with the dedication 
uf his steady eyes, that still looked — 1 know not, whether up- 
ward, or far onward, or rather to the line of meeting where the 
sity rests upon tho distance. But how may I express that dim- 
ness of abstraction which lay on the lustre of the pilgrim's eyes 
like the flitting tarnish from the breath of a sigh on a silver mir- 
ror ! and which accorded with their slow and reluctant move- 
ment, whenever he turned them to any object on the right hand 
or on the \e(t ? It seemed, methought, as if there lay upon the 
brightness a shadowy presence of disappointments now unfelt, 
but never forgotten. It was at once the melancholy of hope and 
of resignation. 

We had not long been fellow-travellers, ere a sadden tempest 
of wind and rain forced us to seek protection in the vaulted door- 
way of a lone chapelry ; and wo sate face to face each on the 
stone bench alongside the low, weather-stained wall, and as close 
It possible to the massy door. 

Alter a pause of silence : even thus, said ho, like two strangem 


that have fled to the same shelter from the same storm, not lei- 
dom do Despair and Hope meet for the first time in the pozch of 
Death ! All extremes meet, I answered ; but yours was a strangB 
and visionary thought. The better then doth it beseem both th# 
place and me, he rephed. From a Visionary wilt thoa hear a 
Vision ? Mark that vivid flash through this torrent of rain ! 
Fire and water. Even here thy adage holds true, and its tmth 
the moral of my Vision. I entreated him to proceed. Sloping 
his face toward the arch and yet averting his eye from it, h« 
seemed to seek and prepare his words : till listening to wind that 
echoed within the hoUow edifice, and to the rain without. 

Which stole on his thoughts with its two-fold souod. 
The clash hard by and the murmur all round, 

he gradually sank away, alike from me and from his own pur- 
pose, and amid the gloom of the storm and in the duskiness of 
that place, he sate like an emblem on a rich man's sepulchre, 
or like a mourner on the sodded grave of an only one — an aged 
mourner, who is watching the waned moon and sorroweth not 
Starting at length from his brief trance of abstraction, with cour- 
tesy and an atoning suiilc he renewed his discourse, and com- 
menced his parable. 

During one of those short furloughs from the service of the body, 
which the soul may sometimes obtain even in this its militant 
state, I found myself in a vast plain, which I immediately knew 
to be the Valley of Life. It possessed an astonishing diversity of 
soils : here was a sunny spot, and there a dark one, forming just 
such a mixture of sunshine and shade, as we may have observed 
on the mountain's side in an April day, when the thin broken 
clouds are scattered over heaven. Almost in the very entrance 
of the valley stood a large and gloomy pile, into which I seemed 
constrained to enter. Every part of the building was crowded 
with tawdry ornaments and fantastic deformity. On every win- 
dow was portrayed, in glaring and inelegant colors, some horrible 
tale, or preternatural incident, so that not a ray of light could 
enter, un tinged by the medium through which it passed. The 
body of the building was full of people, some of them dancing, in 
and out, in unintelligible figures, with strange ceremonies and 
antic merriment, while others seemed convulsed with horror, oc 
pining in mad melancholy. Intermingled with these. I observed 


a niunber of men, clothed in ceremonial robes, who appeared now 
to marshal the various groups, and to direct their movements ; 
and now with menacing countenances, to drag some reluctant 
victim to a vast idol, framed of iron bars intercrossed, which 
formed at the same time an immense cage, and the shape of a 
human Colossus. 

I stood for a while lost in wonder what these things might 
mean ; when lo I one of the directors came up to me, and with 
a stern and reproachful look bade me uncover my head, for that 
the place into which I had entered was the temple of the only 
true Religion, in the holier recesses of which the great Goddess 
personally resided. Himself too he bade me reverence, as the 
consecrated minister of her rites. Awe-struck by the name of 
Religion, I bowed before the priest, and humbly and earnestly 
entreated him to conduct me into her presence. He assented. 
Oiferings he took from me, with mystic sprinklings of water and 
with salt he purified, and with strange sufHations he exorcised 
me ; and then led me through many a dark and winding alley, 
the dew-damps of which chilled my flesh, and the hollow echoes 
under my feet, mingled, methought, with moanings, afirighted 
me. At length we entered a large hall, without window, or 
spiracle, or lamp. The asylum and dormitory it seemed of per- 
ennial night — only that the walls were brought to the eye by a 
number of self-luminous inscriptions in letters of a pale sepulchral 
light, which held strange neutrality with the darkness, on the 
verge of which it kept its rayless vigil. I could read them, me- 
thought ; but though each of the words taken separately I seemed 
to understand, yet when I took them in sentences, they were rid- 
dles and incomprehensible. As I stood meditating on these hard 
sayings, my guide thus addressed me — " Read and believe : these 
are mysteries !** — At the extremity of the vast hall the Goddess 
was placed. Her features, blended with darkness, rose out to 
my view, terrible, yet vacant. I prostrated myself before her, 
and then retired with my guide, soul-withered, and wondering, 
and dissatisfied. 

As I re-entered the body of the temple, I hoard a deep buzz ai 
of discontent. A few whose eyes were bright, and either piercing 
or steady, and whose ample foreheads, with the weighty bar, 
ridge-like, above the eyebrows, bespoke observation followed by 
meditative thought ; and a much larger number, who were en- 


raged by the severity and insolence of the priests in ezactuig 
their oOerings, had collected in one tumultuous group, and with 
a confused outcry of " This is the Temple of Superstition !'* after 
much contumely, and turmoil, and cruel mal-treatment on all 
sides, rushed out of the pile : and I, methought, joined them. 

We speeded from the Temple with hasty steps, and had now 
nearly gone round half the valley, when we were addressed by a 
woman, tall beyond the stature of mortals, and a something moK 
than human in her countenance and mien, which yet could by 
mortals be only felt, not conveyed by words or intelligibly distin^ 
guished. Deep reflection, animated by ardent feelings, was dis- 
played in them : and hope, without its uncertainty, and a some- 
thing more than all these, which I understood not, but which yet 
seemed to blend all these into a divine unity of expression. Her 
garments were white and matronly, and of the simplest texture. 
We inquired her name. ** My name," she replied, " is Religion." 
The more numerous part of our company, affrighted by the 
very sound, and sore from recent impostures or sorceries, hurried 
onwards and examined no farther. A few of us, struck by the 
manifest opposition of her form and manners to those of the living 
Idol, whom we had so recently abjured, agreed to follow her, 
though with cautious circumspection. She led us to an emi- 
nence in the midst of the valley, from the top of which we could 
command the whole plain, and observe the relation of the diHer 
ent parts to each other, and of each to the whole, and of all to 
each. She then gave us an oplic glass which assisted without con- 
tradicting our natural vision, and enabled us to see far beyond 
the limits of the Valley of Life ; though our eye even thus assisted 
permitted us only to behold a light and a glory, but what we could 
not descr}', save only that it was. and that it was most glorious. 
And now with the rapid transition of a dream. I had overtaken 
and rejoined the more numerous party, who had abruptly left us, 
indignant at the very name of religion. They journeyed on, goad- 
ing each other with remembrances of past oppressions, and never 
looking back, till in the eagerness to rece<le from the Temple oi 
Superstition they had rounded the whole circle of the valley. 
And lo ! there faced us the mouth of a vast cavern, at the base 
of a lofty and almost perpendicular rock, the interior side (»f 
which, unknown to them, and unsuspected, formed the extreme 
and backward wall of the Temple. An impatient crowd, we en- 


tered the vast and dusky cave, which was the only perforation 
of the precipice. At the mouth of the cave sate two figures ; 
the first, by her dress and gestures, I knew to be Sensuality ; the 
second form, from the fierceness of his demeanor, and the brutal 
scomfulness of his looks, declared himself to be the monster Blas- 
phemy. He uttered big words, and yet ever and anon I observed 
that he turned pale at his own courage. We entered. Some re- 
mained in the opening of the cave, with the one or the other of 
its guardians. The rest, and I among them, pressed on, till we 
reached an ample chamber, that seemed the centre of the rock. 
The climate of the place was unnaturally cold. 

In the furthest distance of the chamber sate an old dim-eyed 
man, poring with a microscope over the torso of a statue which 
had neither basis, nor feet, nor head ; but on its breast was carved 
Nature ! To this he continually applied his glass, and seemed 
enraptured with the various inequalities which it rendered visible 
on the seemingly polished surface of the marble. — Yet evermore 
was this delight and triumph followed by expressions of hatred, 
and vehement railing against a Being, who yet, he assured us, 
had no existence. This mystery suddenly recalled to me what J 
had read in the holiest recess of the Temple of Superstition 
The old man spake in divers tongues, and continued to utter othei 
and most strange mysteries. Among the rest he talked much 
and vehemently concerning an infinite scries of causes and effects, 
which he explained to be — a string of blind men, the last of 
whom caught hold of the skirt of the one before him, he of the 
next, and so on till they were all out of sight ; and that they all 
walked infallibly straight, without making one false step, though 
all were alike blind. Methought I borrowed courage from sur- 
prise, and asked him — Who then is at the head to guide them ? 
Ue looked at me with ineffable contempt, not unmixed with an 
angry suspicion, and then replied, •' No one.'* The string of 
blind men went on forever without any beginning ; for although 
one blind man could not move without stumbling, yet infinite 
blindness supplied the want of sight. I burst into laughter, 
which instantly turned to terror — for as he started forward in 
rage, I caught a glimpse of him from behind ; and lo ! I beheld 
a monster bi-form and Janus-headed, in the hinder face and shape 
of which I instantly recognized the dread countenance of Super- 
stition — and in the terror I awoke. 




Scene — A spacious dratcing^room, unth fnustc-room adjoining. 

Katharine. What are the words ? 

Eliza. Ask our friend, the Improvisatore ; here he comes 
Kate has a favor to ask of you, Sir ; it is that you will repeat 
the ballad that Mr. sang so sweetly. 

Friend, It is in Moore's Irish Melodies ; but I do not recollect 

the words distinctly. The moral of them, however, I take to be 

this : — 

Love would remain the same if true. 
When we were neither young nor new ; 
Yea, and in all within the will that came, 
By the same proofs would show it«elf the same. 

Eliz. What are the lines you repeated from Beaumont and 
Fletcher, which my mother admired so much ? It begins with 
something about two vines so close that their tendrils intermingle. 

Fri. You mean Charles' speech to Angelina, in " The Elder 

We'll live together, like two neighbor vines, 
Circling our souls and loves in one another I 
We'll spring together, and we'll bear one fruit ; 
One joy shall make us smile, and one grief mourn ; 
One age go with us, and one hour of death 
Shall close our eyes, and one grave make us happy. 

Kath, A precious boon, that would go far to reconcile one to 
old age^this love — ^if true I But is there any such true love ? 

Fri. I hope so. 

Kath, But do you believe it ? 

Eliza, (eagerly) I am sure he does. 

Fri. From a man turned of fiily, Katharine, I imagine, ct- 
pectt a less confident answer. 

Kath. A more sincere one, perhaps. 


Fri. Erea though he should have obtained th» aickname n( 
ImproviBatore, by perpetiating chaiades CLnd extempore verses at 
Christmas times f 

Eiiz. Nay, but be seriouH. 

Fi-i. Serious ! Doubtless. A grave pcrwnage of my yeurs giv- 
ing a love-lecture to two young ladies, can not well be otherwise. 
The difficulty, I suspect, would be for them to remain so. li 
will be Btked whether I am not the " elderly gentleman" who 
sale ■' despairing beside a clear stream," with a willow for his 

Eliz. Say auotlicr word, and we will call it downright aflec- 

JQitk. No! wo will be sfirontcd, drop a courtesy, uid ash 

pardon for our presumption in expecting th&t Mr. ' would 

waste his sense on two insignificant girls. 

Fri. Well, well, I will bo serious. Hem I Now then com- 
mences the discourse ; Mr. Moore's song being the text. Love, 
as distinguished from Friendship, on the one hand, and from the 
passion that too oflen usurps its name, on the other — 

Lucius {Eliza's broUier, wlw had just joined the trio, in a 
whisper to tite Friend). But is not Love the union of both ? 

Fri. (aside to Lucius). He never loved who thinks so. 

Eliz. Srother, we don't want you. There ! Mrs. II. can not 
arrange the flowcr-vose without you. Thank you, Mrs Harl- 

Lue. I'll have my reveuge ! I know what I will say ! 

Eliz. OffI ofl'I Now, dear sir, — Love, you were saying — 

Fri. Hush ! Preaching, you mean, Eliza. 

Eliz. {impalienliy). Pshaw I 

Fri. Well then, I was saying that love, truly such, is itself not 
the most common thing m the world : and mutual love still less 
»>. But that enduring personal attachment, so beautifully de- 
lineated by Erin's sweet melodist, and atill more touchingly, per- 
haps, in the well-kunwn bullad, " John Anderson, my Jo, John," 
in addition to a depth and constancy of charoclei of no every-day 
occurrence, supposes a peculiar sensibility and tenderness of na- 
ture i a constitutional communicativeness and utterancy of heart 
and soul ; a delight ia the detail of sympathy, in the outward 
and visible signs of the sacrament within — to count, as it were, 
the pulses of the life of love. But above all, it supimses a soul 


which, even ia the pride and Bummer-tide of life — even in the 
histihood of health and strength, had felt oftenest and prized 
highest that which age can not take away, and which, in all cor 
lovings, is the Love ; 

Eliz. There is something here {pointing to her heart) that 
seems to understand you, hut wants the word that would make 
it understand itself 

Kath, I, too, seem to feel what you mean. Interpret the feel 
ing for us. 

Fri. 1 mean that willing sense of the unsufficingness of 

the self for itself, which predisposes a generous nature to see, in 
the total heing of another, the supplement and completion of its 
own ; — ^that quiet perpetual seeking which the presence of the 
beloved object modulates, not suspends, where the heart mo- 
mently finds, and, finding, again seeks on ; — lastly, when " life's 
changeful orb has pass'd the full,'' a confirmed faith in the noble- 
ness of humanity, thus brought home and pressed, as it were, to 
the very bosom of hourly experience ; it supposes, I say, a heart- 
felt reverence for worth, not the less deep because divested of 
its solemnity by habit, by familiarity, by mutual infirmities, and 
even by a feeling of modesty which will arise in delicate minds, 
when they are conscious of possessing the same or the correspon 
dent excellence in their own characters. In short, there must be 
a mind, which, while it feels the beautiful and the excellent in 
the beloved as its own, and by right of love appropriates it, can 
call Goodness its playfellow ; and dares make sport of time and 
infirmity, while, in the person of a thousand-foldly endeared part- 
ner, we feel for aged virtue the caressing fondness that belongs 
to the innocence of childhood, and repeat the same attentions and 
tender courtesies which had been dictate<l bv the same afiection 
to the same object when attired in feminine loveliness or in 
manly beauty. 

Eliz. What a soothing — what an elevating thought I 

Kath. If it be not only a mere fancy. 

Fri. At all events, these qualities which I have enumerated* 
are rarely found united in a single individual. How much more 
rare must it be, that two such individuals should meet together 
in this wide world under circumstances that admit of their union 
as Hoshand and Wife. A person may be highly estimable on 
the whole, nay, amiable a« neighbor, friend, housemate — in short, 


in all the concentric circIeB of attachment save only the last and 
iiunoBt ; and yet from how many causes be estranged from the 
highest perfection in this ! Pride, coldnew, or faatidioueneea of 
naliire, worldly cares, an anxious or ambitious disposition, a 
pasjion for display, a sullen temper, — one or the other — too often 
proves " the dead fly in the compost of spices," and any one is 
enough to unfit it for the precious halm of unction. For some 
mighty good sort of i>eople, too, there is not seldom a sort of 
solemn saturniuc, or, if you will, ursine vanity, that keeps itself 
alive by sucking the paws of its own self-importance. And as 
this high sense, or rather sensation of their own value is, for the 
most part, grounded on negative qualities, so they have no better 
means of preserving the same but by negatives — that is, by not 
doing or saying any thing, that might be put down for fond, silly, 
or nonsensical ; — or (to use their own phrase) by never forgetting 
themselves, which some of their acquaintance are uncharitable 
enough to think the most worthless object they could be em- 
ployed in remembering. 

EUz. {in answer to a whitper from Katharine). To a hair ! 
He must have sate for it himself Save me from such folks I 
But they are out of the question. 

FH. True! but the same eSect is produced in thousands by 
the too general insensibility to a very important truth ; this, 
namely, that the misery of human life is made up of large 
masses, each separated from the other by certain intervals. One 
year, the death of a child ; years after, a failure in trade ; after 
another longer or shorter interval, a daughter may have marrieil 
unhappily \ — in all but the singularly unfortunate, the integral 
parts that compose the sum total of the unhappiness of a man's 
life, are easily counted, and distinctly remembered. The happi- 
ness of life, on the contrary, is made up of minute fractions — the 
little, soon-forgotten charities of a kiss, a smile, a kind look, a 
heartfelt compliment in the disguise of playful raillery, and the 
countless other infinitesimals of pleasurable thought and genial 

Kath. Well, Sir; you have said quite enough to make me 
despair of linding a " John Anderson, my Jo, John," with whom 
Id totter down the hill of life. 

Fri. Not so ! Good men are not, I trust, so much scarcer than 
good women, hut that what another would find iu you, you inuv 


hope to find in another. But well, however, may that boon ba 
rare, the possession of which would be more than an adequate 
reward for the rarest virtue. 

Eliz. Surely, he, who has described it so well, must have pos- 
sessed it ? 

Frt. If he were worthy to have possessed it, and had believ* 
ingly anticipated and not found it, how bitter the disappoint 
ment ! (Then, after a pause of a few minutes), 

Answer, ex improviso. 

Yes, yes ! that boon, life's richest treat. 
He had, or fancied that he had ; 
Say, 'twas but in his own conceit — 

The fancy made him glad ! 
Crown of his cup, and garnish of his dish, 
The boon, prefigured in his earliest wish. 
The fair fulfilment of his poesy, 
\Vhen his young heart first yeam'd for sympathy ! 

But e'en the meteor ofispring of the brain 

Unnourished wane ; 
Faith asks her daily bread. 
And Fancy must be fed. 
Now so it chanced — from wet or drj', 
It boots not how — I know not whv — 
She missed her wonted food ; and quickly 
Poor Fancy stagger'd and grew sickly. 
Then came a restless state, 'twixt yea and nay, 
His faith was fix'd, his heart all ebb and flow ; 
Or like a bark, in some half shelter'd bay, 
Above its anchor driving to and fro. 

That boon, which but to have possest 
In a belief, gave life a zest — 
Uncertain both what it had been, 
And if by error lost, or luck ; 
And what it was ; — an evergreen 
Which some insidious blight had struck. 
Or annual flower, which, past its blow. 
No vernal spell shall e'er revive ; 


Uncertain, and afraid to know, 
Doubts tossed him to and fro : 
Hope keeping Love, Love Hope alive, 
Like babes bewildered in the snow, 
That cling and huddle from the cold 
In hollow tree or ruin'd fold. 

Those sparkling colors, once his boast 

Fading, one by one away. 
Thin and hueless as a ghost. 

Poor Fancy on her sick bed lay ; 
111 at distance, worse when near, 
Telling her dreams to jealous Fear ! 
Where was it then, the sociable sprite 
That crowu'd the poet*s cup and decked his dish ? 
Poor shadow cast from an unsteady wish. 
Itself a substance by no other right 
But that it intercepted Reason's light ; 
It dimm'd his eye, it darkened on his brow, 
A peevish mood, a tedious time, I trow ! 
Thank Heaven ! 'tis not so now. 

bliss of blissful hours ! 
The boon of Heaven's decreeing, 
While yet in Eden's bowers 
Dwelt the first husband and his sinless mate I 
The one sweet plant, which, piteous Heaven agreeing, 
They bore with them thro' Eden's closing gate ! 
Of life's gay summer tide the sovran rose ! 
Late autumn's amaranth, that more fragrant blows 
When passion's flowers all fall or fade ; 
If this were ever his, in outward being, 
Or but his own true love's projected shade, 
Now that at length by certain proof he knows, 
That whether real or a magic show, 
Whate'^r it was, it is no longer so ; 
Though heart be lonesome, hope laid low, 
Yet, Lady ! deem him not unblest : 
The certainty that struck hope dead, 
Hath left contentment in her stead : 
And that is next to best ! 



Of late, in one of those most weary hours, 
When life seems emptied of all genial powers, 
A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known 
May bless his happy lot, I sate alone ; 
And, from the numbing spell to win relief, 
Caird on the past for thought of glee or grief. 
In vain ! bereft alike of grief and glee, 
I sate and cow*r'd o'er my own vacancy ! 
And as I watch' d the dull continuous ache, 
Which, all else slumVring, seem'd alone to wake ; 

Friend ! long wont to notice yet conceal, 
And soothe by silence what words can not heal, 

1 but half saw that quiet hand of thine 
Place on my desk this exquisite design, 
Boccaccio's Garden and its faery. 

The Jove, the joyauce, and the gallantry I 
An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm, 
Framed in the silent poesy of form. 
Like Hocks adowu a newly-bathed steep 

Emerging i'roiu a mist ; or like a stream 
Of music soft that not dis]>els the sleep. 

But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream 
Gazed by an idle eye with silent might 
The picture stole upon my inward sight. 
A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest. 
As though an infant's finger touch'd ray breast. 
And one by one (I know not whence) were brought 
All spirits of power that most had stirrd my thought 
In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost 


Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost : 

Or charm'd mv youth, that, kindled from alx)ve. 

Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love ; 

Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan 

Of manhood, musing what and whence is man ! 

Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn caves 

Rehearsed their war-spell to the ^i-inds and waves ; 


Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids, 

That caird on Hertha in deep forest glades ; 

Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast ; 

Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest, 

Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array, 

To high-church pacing on the great saint's day. 

And many a verse which to myself 1 sang, 

That woke the tear yet stole away the pang. 

Of hopes which in lamenting I renew' d. 

And last, a matron now, of sober mien, 

Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen, 

Whom as a faery child my childhood woo'd 

Even in my dawn of thought — Philosophy ; 

Though then unconscious of herself, pardie, 

She bore no other name than Poesy ; 

And, like a gifl from heaven, in lifeful glee. 

That had but newly left a mother's knee, 

Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, and stone 

As if with elfin playfellows well known. 

And life reveal'd to innocence alone. 

Thanks, gentle artist ! now I can descry 

Thy fair creation with a mastering eye, 

And all awake ! And now in fix'd gaze stand, 

Now wander through the Eden of thy hand ; 

Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear 

See fragment shadows of the crossing deer ; 

And with that serviceable nymph I stoop 

The crystal from its restless pool to scoop. 

I see no longer I I myself am there, 

Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share. 

'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings, 

And gaze upon the maid v'ho gazing sings : 

Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells 

From the high tower, and think that there she dwells 

With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest, 

And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest. 

The brightness of the world, O thou once free, 
And always fair, rare land of courtesy ! 


Florence ! with the Tuscan fields and hills, 
And famous A mo fed with all their rills ; 
Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy ! 
Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine, 
The golden com, the olive, and the vine. 
Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old 
And forests, where beside his leafy hold 
The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn, 
And whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn ; 
Palladian palace with its storied halls ; 
Fountains, where Love lies listening to their falb i 
Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span. 
And Nature makes her happy home with man ; 
"Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed 
With its own rill, on its own spangled bed, 
And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head, 
A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn 
AVeeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn ;^ 
Thine all delights, and every muse is thine ; 
And more ihaii all, the embrace and intertwine 
Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance! 
Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance, 
See ! Boccace 8its, unfolding on his knees 
The new-found roll of old Ma^onides ;* 
But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart, 
Peers Ovid's holy book of Love's sweet smart It 

all-enjoyinji^ and all-blending sa£;e, 
Long be it mine to con thy mazy page, 

* Boccaccio claimc<l for hiuiAelf the glory of haviog first iotrodoeed Uie 
Jirorks of Homer to hia countrymen. 

f I know few more striking or more interesting proofs of the ovcr- 
virhelming influence which the study of the Greek and Roman classics 
exercised on the judgments, feelings, and imaginations of the literati of 
Kurope at the commencement of the restoration of literature, than the pas- 
Mige in the Filocopo of Boccaccio : where the sage instructor, Racfaeo, as sood 
as the young prince and the beautiful girl Biancofiore had learned their 
letters, sets them to study the Holy Book, Ovid's Art of Love. " Inoomin 
cid Radieo a mettere il suo officio in esecuzionc con intera sollecitudine. 
K loro, in breve tempo, insegoato a oonoscer le lettere, fece leggere il santo 
libro d*OvTidio, nel quale il sommo poeta mostra, come i santi foodii di 
Venere si debbano ne* freddi cuori acoendere." 



Where, half-conceard, the eye of fancy views 

P^aans, nymphs, and winged saints, all gracious to thy muse! 

Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks. 
And see in Dian's vest between the ranks 
Of the trim vines, some maid that half believes 
The vestal fires, of which her lover grieves. 
With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves I 





Unperishing youth ! 

Thou leapest from forth 

The cell of thy hidden nativity ; 

Never mortal saw 

The cradle of the strong one ; 

Never mortal heard 

The gathering of his voices ; 

The deep-murmured charm of the son of the rock, 

That is lisp*d evermore at his slumberless fountain. 

There*s a cloud at the portal, a spray- woven veil 

At the shrine of his ceaseless renewing ; 

It embosoms the roses of dawn. 

It entangles the shafts of the noon, 

And into the bed of its stillness 

The moonshine sinks down as in slumber, 

That the son of the rock, that the nursling of heaven 

May be born in a holy twilight ! 


The wild goat in awe 

Looks up and beholds 

Above thee the clilf inaccessible ;— 

Thou at once full-born 

M add' nest in thy joyance, 

Whirlcst, shatter'st, splitt'st, 

Life invulnerable. 





Like a lone Arab, old and blind 

Some caravan had led behind 

Who sits beside a ruin'd well, 

Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell ; 
And now he hangs his aged head aslant, 
And listens for a human sound — in vain ! 
And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant. 
Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain : — 
Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour, 
Resting my eye upon a drooping plant. 
With brow low bent, within my garden bower, 
I sate upon the couch of camomile ; 
And — whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance, 
Flitted across the idle brain, the while 
I watch'd the sickly calm with aimless scope, 
In my own heart ; or that, indeed a trance, 
Turn'd my eye inward — thee, genial Hope, 
Love's elder sister I thee did I behold, 
Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold. 
With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim 

Lie lifeless at my feet I 
And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim, 

And stood beside my seat ; 
She bent, and kissed her sister's lips. 

As she was wont to do ; — 
Alas I 'twas but a chilling breath 
Woke just enough of life in death 
To make Hope die anew. 

Anxious to associate the name of a roost dear and honored friend with my 
own, I solicited and obtained the permissiou of Professor J. H. Geeex tr. 
permit the insertion of the two following poems, by him composed. 

a. T. C>OLKaiPOB. 


The house is a prison, the school-room's a cell ; 
Leave study and books for the upland and dell ; 


Lay aside tke dull poring, quit home and quit care ; 
Sally forth ! Sally forth ! Let us breathe the fresh air ! 
The sky dons its holiday mantle of blue ; 
The sun sips his morning refreshment of dew ; 
Shakes joyously laughing his tresses of light, 
And here and there turns his eye piercing and bright ; 
Then jocund mounts up on his glorious car, 
V\''ith smiles to the mom, — for he means to go far ; — 
vYhile the clouds, that had newly paid court at his levee, 
Spread sail to the breeze, and glide ofi* in a bevy. 
Tree, and tree-tufled hedge-row, and sparkling between 
Dewy meadows enamelled in gold and in green, 
With king-cups and daisies, that all the year please. 
Sprays, petals, and leaflets, that nod in the breeze. 
With carpets, and garlands, and wreaths, deck the way. 
And tempt the blithe spirit still onward to stray. 
Itself its own home ; — far away ! far away ! 

The butterflies flutter in pairs round the bower ; 
The humble-bee sings in each bell of each flower ; 
The bee hums of heather and breeze-wooing hill. 
And forgets in the sunshine his toil and his skill ; 
The birds carol gladly ! — the lark mounts on high ; 
The swallows on wing make thelV tune to the eye, 
And as birds of good omen, that summer loves well, 
Ever wheeling weave ever some magical spell. 
The hunt is abroad : — hark ! the horn soundp its note, 
And seems to invite us to regions remote. 
The horse in the meadow is stirred by the sound, 
And neighing impatient o'erleaps the low mound ; 
Then proud in his speed o'er the champaign he bounds, 
To the whoop of the huntsmen and tongue of the hounds. 
Then stay not within, for on such a blest day 
We can never quit home, while with Nature we stray ; far away 
far away ! 



The feverous dream is past ! and I awake. 

Alone and joyless in my prison-cell, 

Again to ply the never-ending toil, 

And bid the task- worn memory weave again 

The tangled threads, and ravelled skein of thought 

Disjointed fragments of my care-worn life ! 

The mirror of my soul, — ah ! when again 

To welcome and reflect calm joy and hope ! — 

Again subsides, and smooths its turbid swell, 

Late surging in the sweep of frenzy's blast, — 

And the sad form of scenes and deeds long past 

Blend into spectral shapes and deathlike life, 

And pass in silent, stem procession ! — 

The storm is past ; but in the pause and hush. 

Nor calm nor tranquil joy, nor peace are mine ; 

My spirit is rebuk'd ! — and like a mist. 

Despondency, in gray cold mantle clad, 

In phantom form gigantic floats I — 

That dream, 
That dream, that dreadful dream, the potent spell, 
That calls to life the phantoms of the past, — 
Makes e'en oblivion memor}^*s register, — 
Still swells and vibrates in my throbbing brain ! 
Again I wildly quafl'd the maddening bowl, 
Again I stak'd my all — again the die 
Prov'd traitor to my hopes ; — and 'twas for her. 
Whose love more madden'd than the bowl, whose lovp. 
More dear than all, was treacherous as the die : — 
Again I saw her with her paramour, 
Again I aim'd the deadly blow, again 
^ senseless fell, and knew not whom I struck. 
Myself, or her, or him : — I heard the shriek, 
And mingled laugh, and cry of agony : 
I fell the whirl of rapid motion, — 
And hosts of fiendish shapes, uncertain seen 
In murk} air. glared fiercely as I pass'd ; — 


They welcomed me with hitter laughs of scorn, 
They pledged me in the hrimming cup of hate.— 

But stay your wild career, unhridled thoughts, 
Or frenzy must unseat my reason's sway, — 
Again give license to my lawless will I — 
And yet I know not, if that demon rout 
Be fancy stirred hy passion's power, or true ;-^ 
Or life itself he hut a shadowy dream. 
The act and working of an evil will ! — 
Dread scope of phantasy and passion's power ! 
Oh God ! take hack the hoon, the precious gii\ 
Of will mysterious. — Give me, give again, 
The infliction dire, fell opiate of my griefs : 
Sharp wound, hut in the smart the panoply 
And bhield against temptations, that assail 
My weak and yielding spirit ! — Madness come 
The halm to guilt, the safeguard from remorse 
Make me forget, and save me from myself ! 


A BIRD, who for his other sins 
Had liv'd amongst the Jacobins ; 
Tho' like a kitten amid rats. 
Or callow tit in nest of bats, 
He much abhorr'd all democrats ; 
Yet nathless stood in ill report 
Of wishing ill to Church and Court. 
Tho' he'd nor claw, nor tooth, nor sting. 
And learnt to pipe God save the King ; 
Tho' each day did new feathers bring. 
All swore he had a leathern wing ; 
Nor polish'd wing, nor feather'd tail, 
Nor down-clad thigh would aught avail ; 
And tho' — his tongue devoid of gall — 
He civilly assur'd them all : — 
" A bird am I of PhGebus' breed. 
And on the sunflower cling and feed ; 


My name, good Siis^ is Thonuui Tit !'* 
The bata would hail him brother cit. 
Or, at the furthest, cousin-german. 
At length the matter to determine. 
He publicly denounced the vermin ; 
He spared the mouse, he prais'd the owl ; 
But bats were neither flesh nor fowl. 
Blood-sucker, vampire, harpy, goul, 
Came in full clatter from his throat, 
Till his old nest-mates chang'd their note 
To hireling, traitor, and turncoat, — 
A base apostate who had sold 
His very teeth and claws for gold ; — 
A nd then his feathers ! — sharp the jest^ 
No doubt he fcather'd well his nest ! 
A Tit indeed ! aye, tit for tat — 
With place and title, brother Bat, 
We soon shall see how well he'll play 
(Jount Goldfinch, or Sir Joseph Jay I 

Alas, poor Bird ! and ill-bestarred — 
Or rather let us say; poor Bard I 
And henceforth quit the allegoric 

With metaphor and simile, 
For simple facts and style historic : — 
Alas, poor Bard ! no gold had he 
Behind another's team he stept, 
And plough'd, and sow'd, while others reapt ; 
The work was his, but theirs the glory. 
Sic voa non vobis, his whole stor\'. 
Besides, whate'er he WTote or said 
Came from his heart as M-ell as head ; 
And tho' he never left in lurch 
His king, his country, or his church, 
'Twas but to humor his own cynical 
Contempt of doctrines Jacobinical ; 
To his own conscience only hearty, 
'Twas but by chance he serv'd the party ;— 
The self-same things had said and writ. 
Had Pitt been Fox, and Fox been Pitt ; 


Conteut his own applause to win 
Would never dash thro' thick and thin, 
And he can make, so say the wise, 
No claim who makes no sacrifice ; — 
And hard still less : — what claim had he, 
Who swore it vex'd his soul to see 
So grand a cause, so proud a realm 
With Goose and Goody at the helm ; 
Who long ago had fall'n asunder 
But for their rivals, baser blunder, 
The coward whine and Frenchified 
Slaver and slang of the other side ? — 

Thus, his own whim his only bribe, 
Our bard pursued his old A. B. C. 
Contented if he could subscribe 
In fullest sense his name "Eajt^us ; 
('Tis Punic Greek, * for he hath stood !') 
Whate'er the men, the cause was good ; 
And therefore with a right good will, 
Poor fool, he fights their battles still. 
Tush ! squeaked the Bats ; — a mere bravado 
To whitewash that base renegade ; 
'Tis plain unless youVe blind or mad. 
His conscience for the bays he barters ; — 
And true it is — as true as sad — 
These circlets of green baize he had — 
But then, alas ! they were his garters ! 

Ah ! silly Bard, unfed, untended, 
His lamp but glimmer'd in its socket ; 
He liv'd unhonor'd and unfriended 
With scarce a penny in his pocket ; — 
Nay — tho' he hid it from the many — 
With scarce a pocket for his penny I 


'* Fie, Mr. Coleridge ! — and can this be you ? 
Break two commandments ? and in church-time too ! 
Have you not heard, or have you heard in vain, 
The birth and parentage-recording strain ? 


Confessions shrill, that out-shriU'd mack*rel 
Fresh from the drop, the youth not yet cut down. 
Letter to sweetheart — ^the last dying speech — 
And didn't all this begin in Sabbath breach ? 
You, that knew better ! In broad open day, 
Steal in, steal out, and steal our flowers away ? 
What could possess you ? Ah ! sweet youth, I fear. 
The chap with horns and tail was at your ear !" 

Such sounds of late, accusing fancy brought 

From fair to the Poet's thought. 

Now hear the meek Parnassian youth's reply :-«- 
A bow, a pleading look, a downcast eye, — 
And then : 

'* Fair dame ! a visionary wight. 
Hard by your hill-side mansion sparkling white, 
His thoughts all hovering round the Muses' home, 
Long hath it been your Poet's wont to roam. 
And many a morn, on his becharmed sense 
So rich a stream of music issued thence 
He deem'd himself, as it flowed warbling on. 
Beside the vocal fount of Helicon I 
But when, as if to settle the concern, 
A nymph too he beheld, in many a turn. 
Guiding the sweet rill from its fontal urn, — 
Say, can you blame? — No I none that saw and heard 
Could blame a bard, that he thus inly stirr'd ; 
A mu^e beholding in each fervent trait, 

Took Mary for Polly Hymnia I 

Or haply as there stood beside the maid 

One loftier form in sable stole array 'd, 

If with regretful thought he hail'd in thee 

, his long-lost friend, Mol Pomene I 

But most of you, soft warblings, I complain I 
'Twas ye that from the bee-hive of my brain 
Lured the wild fancies forth, a freakish rout, 
And witched the air with dreams turned inside out. 

Thus all conspir'd — each power of eye and ear. 
And this gay month th' enchantress of the year. 


To cheat poor me (no conjurer, God wot I) 

And *8 self accomplice in the plot. 

Can you then wonder if I went astray ? 

Not bards alone, nor lovers mad as they ; — 

All nature day-dreams in the month of May. 

And if I plucked each flower that sweetest blows, — 

Wlio walks in sleep, needs follow must his nose. 

Thus, long accustom'd on the twy-fork'd hill, 

To pluck both flower and floweret at my will ; 

The garden's maze, like No-man'sland, I tread, 

Nor common law, nor statute in my head ; 

For my own proper smell, sight, fancy, feeling, 

With autocratic hand at once repealing 

Five Acts of Parliament 'gainst private stealing ! 

But yet from who despairs of grace ? 

There's no spring-gun or man-trap in that face ! 
Let Moses then look black, and Aaron blue, 
That look as if they had little else to do : 

For speaks, " Poor youth I he's but a waif I 

The spoons all right ? the hen and chickens sale ? 

Well, well, he shall not forfeit our regards — 

T!ie Ein^hth Commandment was not made for Bards !" 


^1 a premonition promulgated gratia for the use of the Useful Classes, 
tipeoially those resident in St. Giles's, Saffron Hill. Bethual Green, <fec 
and likewise, inasmuch as the good man is merciful even to the bea^t^ 
for the benefit of the Bulls and Bears of the Stock Exchange. 

Pains ventral, subventral, 

In stomach or entrail. 

Think no longer mere prefaces 

For grins, groans, and wry faces ; 
But ofl' to the doctor, fast as ye can crawl I — 
Yet far better 'twould be not to have them at all. 

Now to 'scape inward aches, 
Eat no plums nor plum-cakes ; 
Cry avaunt ! new potatoe-^ 
And don't drink, like old Cato. 


Ah ! beware of Dispipey, 

And don't ye get tipey ! 

For tho' gin and whiskey 

May make yon feel frisky, 

They're but crimps to Dispipsy ; 

And nose to tail, with this gipsy 

Comes, black as a porpus, 

The diabolus ipse, 

Caird Cholery Morpns ; 
Whc with horns, hoofs, and tail, croaks for carrion to feed him 
Tho' being a Devil, no one never has seed him ! 

Ah ! then my dear honies, 
There's no cure for you 
For loves nor for monies : — 
You'll find it too true. 
Och ! the hallabaloo ! 
Och ! och I how you'll wail, 
When the oflal-fed vagrant 
Shall turn you as blue 
As the gas-light unfragrant, 
That gushes in jets from beneath his own tail ;— 
'Till swiil as the mail, 
He at last brings the cramps on, 
That will twist you like Samson. 

So without further blethring. 

Dear mudlarks ! my brethren I 

Of all scents and degrees, 

(Yourselves and your slies) 

Forswear all cabal, lads, 

Wakes, unions, and rows. 

Hot dreams, and cold salads 
And don't pig in sties that would suffocate sows ! 
ftuit Cobbett's. O'Connell's, and Beelzebub's banners. 
And whitewash at once bowels, rooms, hands, and manners 



In Kohli), a town of monks and bonea, 

And pavements faiig'd with murderous stones, 

And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches ; 

I counted two and seventy stenches, 

AH well-defined, and several stinks ! 

Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks. 

The river Rhine, it is well known. 

Doth wash your city of Cologne ; 

But tell me, Nymphs 1 what power divine 

ijhall henceforth wash the river Rhine? 


And now at least a merry one, 

Mr. Mum's Rudesheimer 

And the church of St. Gerj'on 

Are the two things alone 

That deserve to bo kuown 
In the body and soul-slink in g town of Cologna. 


Paiirt seeks the polar ridge ; 

Rhymeti seeks ^ T. Colerid^, 

Author of works, whereof — tho' not in Dutch — 

The public little knows — the publisher too much. 


YoL'ft poem must eternal be. 
Dear Sir 1 it can not fail I 

For 'tis incomprehensible. 
And without head or taiL 



Trdchee trips frdm lOng t6 shdrt ; 

From long to long in 6olemn sort 

Slow spOnd^e stalks ; strOng foot ! yet ill able 

Ever to cOme up with Dactyl trisyllable. 

Iambics march fr6m shOrt t6 l6ng ; — 

With k leap and a bound th^ swift An&polsts thrOng ; 

One syllabic long, with one short at each side, 

Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride ; — 

First and last being lOng, middle shdrt, Aihphimacer 

Strikes his thOndSriug hoofs like a prolid high-bred Racer. 

If Derwent be innocent, steady, and wise, 
And delight in the things of earth, water, and skies ; 
Tender warmth at his heart, with these metres to show it. 
With sound sense in his brains, may make Derwent a poet, — 
May crown him with fame, and must win him the loVo 
Of his father on earth and his Father above. 

My dear, dear child I 
Could you stand upon Skiddaw, you would not from its whole ridgs 
Sc*» a man who so loves you as your fond S. T. Coleridge. 



Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows. 
Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the Oceao, 


In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column ; 
In the pentameter aye falling in melody back. 


Kayser ! to whom, as to a second self, 
Nature, or Nature's next-of-kin, the Elf 
Right Genius, hath dispensed the happy skill 
To cheer or soothe the parting friend's, alas ^ 



Turning the blank scroll to a magic glus. 
That makes the absent present ut our will ; 
And to the shadowing of thy pencil gives 
Such seeming substance, that it almost lives, 

Wei] haBt thou given the thoughtful Poet's face : 
Yet bast thou on the tablet of hia mind 
A more delightful portrait left behind — 
Ev'ii thy own youthful beauty, and artless graoe. 
Thy natural gladness and eyes bright with glee '. 

Kayser ! farewell ! 
Be wise ! be happy ! and forget not me. 


Sly Beelzebub look all occasions 
To try Job's constancy and patience ; 
He took his honors, look his health, 
He took his cbildron, took his wealth. 
His camels, horses, asses, cows — 
And the sly Devil did not take his spouse. 

But Heaven that brings out good from evil, 
And loves to disappoint the Devil, 
Had predetermined lo restore 
Twofoli) all Job had belbre. 
His children, camels, horses, cows — 
Short-sighted Devil, not lo take his spouse ! 


Swap's sing before they die : 'twere no^ bad thing. 
Should certain persons die before they sing. 


'Tis Cipher lies beneath this crust — 
Whom Death created into dust. 



WiiAT a spring-tide of Love to dear friends ia a shoal ! 
Half of it to one were worth doable the whole ! 


To praise men as good» and to take them for such. 
Is a grace, which no soul can mete out to a tittle ;— > 

Of which he who has not a little too much, 

Will by Charity's gage surely have much too little. 


FiiAiL creatures are we all ! To be the best. 
Is but the fewest faults to have : — 

Look thou then to thyself, and leave the rest 
To God, thy conscience, and the grave. 



•• Be, rather than be called, a child of God," 
Death whispered I — with assenting nod. 
Its head upon its mother's breast. 
The Babv bowed, without demur — 


Of the kingdom of the Blest 
Possessor, not inheritor. 



O FKAiL as sweet ! twin buds, too rathe to bear 

The Winter's unkind air ; 
irifts beyond all price, no sooner given 

Thau straight required by Heaven ; 

* Bv a friend. 


Matched jewels, vainly for a moment lent 

To deck my brow, or sent 
Untainted from the earth, as Christ's, to soar, 

And add two spirits more 
To that dread baud seraphic, that doth lio 

Beneath the Almighty's eye ; — 
Glorious the thought — yet ah ! my babes, ah ! still 

A father's heart ye fill ; 
Though cold ye lie in earth — though gentle death 

Hath suck'd your balmy breath, 
And the last kiss which your fair cheeks I gave 

Is buried in yon grave. 
No tears — no tears — I wish them not again ; 

To die for them was gain, 
Ere Doubt, or Fear, or Woe, or act of Sin 

Had marr'd God's light within. 

— E ccbIo descendit yvOdi aeavTov. — Juvenal. 

Fvwdi oBavtbv I — and is this the prime 

And heaven-sprung adage of the olden time ! — 

Say, canst thou make thyself? — Learn first that trade ;- 

Haply thou mayst know what thyself had made. 

What hast thou, Man, that thou dar'st call thine own ?- 

What is there in thee, Man, that can bo known ? — 

Dark fluxion, all untixable by thought, 

A phantom dim of past and future wrought. 

Vain sister of the worm, — life, death, soul, clod — 

Ignore thyself, and strive to know thy vjod 1 

Beareth all things. — 2 Cor. xiii. 7. 

Gently I took that which ungently came, 
And without scorn forgave : — Do thou the same. 
A wrong done to thee think a cat's eye spark 
Thou would st not see, were not thine own heart dark. 
Thine own keen sense of wrong that thirsts for sin. 
Fear that — the spark self-kindled from within, 
Which blown upon will blind thee with its glare, 
Or smother'd stifle thee with noisome air. 


Nay, I could write a book myself. 
Would fit a parson's lower shelf, 
Showing how very good you are. — 
What then ? sometimes it must be fair I 
And if sometimes, why not tcwiay ? 
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 

Dear Kain ! if I've been cold and shy, 

Take no offence ! I'll tell you why. 

A dear old Friend e'en now is here, 

And with him came my sister dear ; 

After long absence now first met. 

Long months by pain and grief beset — 

With three dear friends ! in truth, we groaa- 

Impatiently to be alone. 

We three, you mark ! and not one more ! 

The strong wish makes my spirit sore. 

We have so much to talk about, 

So many sad things to let out ; 

So many tears in our eye-corners. 

Sitting like little Jacky Homers — 

In short, as soon as it is day, 

Do go, dear Rain ! do go away. 

And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain ! 

Whenever you shall come again, 

Be you as dull as e'er you could, 

(And by the bye 'tis understood. 

You're not so pleasant as you're good) 

Yet knowing well your worth and place, 

I'll welcome you with cheerful face ; 

And though you stayed a week or rnore» 

Were ten times duller than before ; 

Yet with kind heart, and right good will, 

I'll sit and listen to you still ; 

Nor should you go away, dear Rain I 

Uninvited to remain. 

But only now, for this one day, 

Do go, dear Rain ! do go away. 



We pledged our hearts, my love and I, — 
I in my arms the maiden cloBping ; 

I could not tell the reason why, 
But, ob : I trembled like an aspen. 

Ber father's love she bade me gain ; 

I went and abook like any reed ! 
I strove to act the man in vain ! 

We had exchanged our hearts indeed. 


T[iE butterfly the ancient Grecians made 

The soul's fair emblem, and its only name — 

But of the soul, escaped tba Hlavigb trade 

Of mortal life ! — For in this earthly frame 

Oiir's is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame, 

Manifold motions making little speed, 

And to deform and kill tbo things whereon we feed. 


O'er wayward childhood wouldst tboii hold firm rule. 
And sun thee in the light of happy faces ; 
Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces, 
And in thine own heart let them first keep school. 
For as old Atlas on his broad neck places 
Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it, — to 
Do these upbear the little world below 
or Education, — Patience, Love, and Hope. 
Methinks, I see them grouped, in seemly show. 
The straitened arms upraised, the palms aslope. 
And robes that, touching as adown they flow. 
Distinctly blend, like snow embossed in snow. 


Marquu Y aldez, father to the two brother$, and J)ona Tbeiba's 
Don Alyab, Ike eldest ton. 
Don Okoonio, the youngest atm. 
MoNViEDBO, a Dominican and inquisitor. 
ZuLiMEZ, the faithful attendant on Alvab. 
Isidore, a Moreseo chieftain^ ostensibly a Chrittims, 
• Familiars of the Inquisition, 


^ Moors, Servauli', d:c. 
Dona Teeesa, an orphan hei rests. 
Alhadra, vfife of Isidore. 

Time — 7^e reign of Puiup II., juft at the close of the civil wars agaisist tkt 
Moors, and during the heat of the persecution which raged against tA«Mi, 

shortly after the edict which forbade the wearing of Moreseo apparel '" 

pain of death. 

ScESE I. — The sea-shore, on tiie const of Granada. 

Don Alvar, tcrapt in a boat doak, and Zulimez (a Moren-a), 6olk 
as just landed. 

Zul. No Bound, no face of joy to welcome us ! 

Ale. My Taithful Zulimez, for one brief moment 
Let inu forget my anguish and their crimea. 
If aught on earth demand an unmix'd feeling, 
'Tig Bureljr this — after long years of exile. 
To step forth on firm land, and gazing round us, 
To hail at once our country, and our hirth-place. 
Hail, Spain ! Granada, hail ! once more I pren 
Thy Bands with filial awe, land of my fathers ! 

ZuL Then claim your rights in it ! 0, revered Don Alvu 
Yet, yet give up your all too gentle purpose. 
It is too hazardous ! reveal yourself, 
And let the guilty meet the doom of guilt ! 

Alv. Kemembcr, Zulimez ! I am his brother. 
Injured indeed I deeply injured 1 yet 
Ordonio's brother. 

Zul. Nobly minded Alvar ! 

This Bure but gives his guilt a blacker dye. 

Alv. The more behooves it, I should rouse within him 
Iteinorse I that I should save him from himself. 

Zul. Rcmorae is as the heart iit which it gro\^'s : 
If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews 
or true repentance ; but if proud and gloomy. 
It is a poison-tree, that pierced to the inmost 
Weepi only teats of poison. 


Alv. And of a brother, 

Dare I hold this, unproved ? nor make one efibrt 
To save him ? — Hear me, friend ! I have yet to tell thee. 
That this same life, which he conspired to take, 
Himself once rescued from the angry flood, 
And at the imminent hazard of his own. 
Add too my oath — 

Zul. You have thrice told already 

The years of absence and of secrecy. 
To which a forced oath bound you : if in truth 
A suborned murderer have the power to dictate 
A binding oath — 

Alv. My long captivity 

Left me no choice : the very wish too languished 
With the fond hope that nursed it ; the sick babe 
Drooped at the bosom of its famished mother. 
But (more than all) Teresa's perfidy ; 
The assassin's strong assurance, when no interest. 
No motive could have tempted him to falsehood : 
In the first pangs of his awakened conscience. 
When with abhorrence of his own black purpose 
The murderous weapon, pointed at ray breast, 
Fell from his palsied hand — 

Ztil. Heavy presimiption f 

Alv. It weighed not with me — Hark I 1 will tell thea all ; 
As we passed by, I bade thee mark the base 
Of yonder cli fl' — 

Zul. That rocky seat you mean. 

Shaped by the billows ? — 

Alu, There Teresa met me 

The morning of the day of my departure. 
We were alone : the purple hue of dawn 
Fell from the kindling east aslant upon us, 
And blending with the blushes on her cheek, 
Sufiused the tear-drops there with rosy light. 
There seemed a glor}' round us, and Teresa 
The angel of the vision I 

Had'st thou seen 
How in each motion her most innocent soul 
Beamed forth and brightened, thou thyself would'st tell mo. 


'J uilt is a thing impossible ia her ! 
She must be innocent ! 

Zid. Proceed, my lord ! 

Alv. A portrait which she had procured by stealth, 
^For even then it seems her heart foreboded 
Or knew Ordonio's moody rivalry) 
4. portrait of herself with thrilling hand 
the tied around my neck, conjuring me. 
With earnest prayers, that I would keep it sacred 
To my own knowledge : nor did she desist, 
Till she had won a solemn promise from me. 
That (save my own) no eye should e'er behold it 
Till my return. Yet this the assassin knew. 
Knew that which none but she could have disclosed. 

ZuL A damning proof ! 

Ali\ My own life wearied me ! 

And but for the imperative voice within. 
With mine own hand I had thrown off the burthen. 
That voice, which quelled me, calmed me : and I mnght 
The Belgic states : there joined the better cause ; 
And there too fought as one that courted death ! 
Wounded, I fell among the dead and dying, 
In deathlike trance : a long imprisonment followed 
The fulness of my anguish by degrees 
Waned to a meditative melancholy ; 
And still the more I mused, my soul became 
More doubtful, more perplexed ; and still Teresa, 
Night after night, she visited my sleep ; 
Now as a saintly sufferer, wan and tearful, 
Now as a saint in glory beckoning to mc ! 
Yes, still as in contempt of proof and reason, 
I cherish the fond faith that she is guiltless ! 
Hear then my fix'd resolve : I'll linger here 
In the disguise of a Morcsco chieftain. — 
The Moorish robes ? — 

Zul. All, all are in the sea-cave, 

Some furlong hence. I bade our mariners 
Secrete the boat there. 

Alv. Above ail, the picture 

Of the assassination — 


Zul. Be assured 

That it remains uninjuied. 

Alv. Thus disguised 

I will first seek to meet Ordonio's — ^wife I 
If possible, alone too. This was her wonted walk, 
A.nd this the hour ; her words, her very looks 
Will acquit her or convict. 

Zul. Will they not know you ? 

Alv. With your aid, friend, I shall unfearingly 
Trust the disguise ; and as to my complexion. 
My long imprisonment, the scanty food. 
This scar, — and toil beneath a burning sun, 
Have done already half the business for us. 
Add too my youth : — since last we saw each other. 
Manhood has swoln my chest, and taught my voiea 
A hoarser note — ^Besides, they think me dead ; 
And what the mind believes impossible, 
The bodily sense is slow to recognize. 

Zul. 'Tis yours, sir, to command, mine to obey. 
Now to the cave beneath the vaulted rock, 
Mrliere having shaped you to a Moorish chiei\ain, 
ril seek our mariners ; and in the dusk 
Transport whate'er we need to the small dell 
lu the Alpuj arras — there where Zagri lived. 

Alv. I know it well : it is the obscurest haunt 
Of all the mountains — [both stand listening.] 

Voices at a distance ! 
liCt us away ! Exeunt 

Scene II. — Enter Teresa and Valdez 

Ter. I hold Ordonio iear ; he is your son 
And Alvar's brother. 

Val. Love him for himself. 

Nor make the living wretched for the dead. 

Ter. I mourn that you should plead in vain, Lord Valdez; 
But heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain 
Faithful to Alvar, be he dead or living. 

Val. Heaven knows with what delight I saw your loves, 
And could my heart's blood give him back to thee 

KEMOKSfi. 849 

I would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts ! 

Thy dying father comes upon my soul 

With that same look, with which he gave thee to me ; 

I held thee in my arms a powerless habe. 

While thy poor mother, with a mute entreaty, 

Fixed her faint eyes on mine. Ah ! not for this, 

That I should let thee feed Uiy soul wilh gloom, 

And with slow anguish wear away thy life, 

The victim of a useless constancy. 

I must not see thee wretched. 

Ter, There are woes 

111 bartered for the garishness of joy ! 
If it be wretched with an untired eye 
To watch those skyey tints, and this green ocean ; 
Or in the sultry hour beneath some rock, 
My hair dishevelled by the pleasant sea breeze, 
To shape sweet visions, and live o'er again 
All past hours of delight ! If it be wretched 
To watch some bark, and fancy Alvar there. 
To go through each minutest circumstance 
or the blest meeting, and to frame adventures 
Most terrible and strange, and hear him tell them ; 
(As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid 
Who dress' d her in her buried lover's clothes. 
And o'er the smooth spring in the mountain cleft 
Hung with her lute, and played the self-same tunc 
He used to play, and listened to the shadow 
Herself had made) — if this be wretchedness. 
And if indeed it be a wretched thing 
To trick out mine own death-bed, and imagine 
That I had died, died just ere his return ! 
Then see him listening to my constancy. 
Or hover round, as he at midnight oft 
•Sits on my grave, and gazes at the moon ; 
Or haply in some moie fantastic mood. 
To be in Paradise, and with choice flowers 
Build up a bower where he and I might dwell. 
And there to wait his coming ! my sire ! 
My Alvar's sire ! if this be wretchedness 
That eats away the life, what were it, think you, 


If in a most assured reality 

He should return, and see a brother's infant 

Smile at him from my arms ? 

Oh what a thought ! 

VaL A thought ? even so ! mere thought ! an empty thooght. 
The very week he promised his return 

Tcr, Was it not then a busy joy J to see him, 
After those three years' travels ! we had no fears — 
The frequent tidings, the ne'er failing letter. 
Almost endeared his absence ! Yet the gladness, 
The tumult of our joy ! What then if now 

Vol, power of youth to feed on pleasant thoughts, 
Spite of conviction ! I am old and heartless ! 
Yes, I am old — I have no pleasant fancies — 
Hectic and unrefreshed with rest 

Ter, My father ! 

Val. The sober truth is all too much for me ! 
I see no sail which brings not to my mind 
The home-bound bark in which my son was captured 
By the Algerine — to perish with his captors ! 

Ter. Oh no ! he did not ! 

Val. Captured in sight of laud I 

From yon hill point, nay, from our castle watch-tower 
We might have seen 

Ter. His capture, not his death 

Veil. Alas I how aptly thou forget'st a tale 
Thou ne'er didst wish to learn ! my brave Ordonio 
Saw both the pirate and his prize go down, 
In the same storm that baffled his own valor. 
And thus twice snatched a brother from his hopes : 
Gallant Ordonio ! beloved Teresa, 
AVouldst thou best prove thy faith to generous Alvar, 
And most delight his spirit, go, make thou 
His brother happy, make his aged father 
Sink to the grave in joy. 

Ter. For mercy's sake 

Press me no more I I have no power to love him. 
Uis proud forbidding eye, and his dark brow, 
Chill me like dew damos of the unwholesome night ; 


Bf y love, a timorous and tender flower, 
Closes beneath his touch. 

Val. You wrong him, maiden ! 

You wrong him, by my soul ! Nor was it well 
To character by such unkindly phrases 
The stir and workings of that love for you 
Which he has toiled to smother. 'Twas not well, 
Nor is it grateful in you to forget 
His wounds and perilous voyages, and how 
With an heroic fearlessness of danger 
He roam'd the coast of Afric for your Alvar. 
It was not well — You have moved me even to tears. 

Tcr. pardon me. Lord Valdez I pardon me ! 
It was a foolish and ungrateful speech, 
A most ungrateful speech I But I am hurried 
Beyond myself, if 1 but hear of one 
Who aims to rival Alvar. Were we not 
Born in one day, like twins of the same parent ? 
Nursed in one cradle ? Pardon me, my father ! 
A six years' absence is a heavy thing, 
Yet still the hope survives 

Val. (looking forward). Hush ! *tis Monviedro. 

Tcr. The Inquisitor ! on what new scent of blood ? 
Enter Monviedro with Alliadra. 

Mon. Peace and the truth be with you I Good my Lord, 
My present need is with your son. 
We have hit the time. Here comes he 1 Yes, His he. 
Enter frojn the opposite side Don Ordoyiio. 
My Lord Ordonio, this Moresco woman 
(Alhadra is her name) asks audience of you. 

Otd. Hail, reverend father! what may be the business? 

Mon. My lord, on strong suspicion of relapse 
To his false creed, so recently abjured, 
The secret servants of the Inquisition 
Have seized her husband, and at my conmiand 
To the supreme tribunal would have led him, 
But that he made appeal to you, my lord, 
As surety for his soundness in the faith. 
Though lessoned by experience what small trust 
The asseverations of these Moors deserve 


Yet still the deference to Ordonio's name, 
Nor less the wish to prove vrith what high honor 
The Holy Church regards her faithful soldiers, 
Thus far prevailed with me that 

Ord. Keverend fathar, 

1 am much heholden to your high opinion, 
Which so overprizes my light services. 

[then to Alhadra. 
I would that I could serve you ; but in truth 
Your face is new to me. 

Mon. My mind foretold me, 

That such would be the event. In truth, Lord Yaldez, 
'Twas little probable that Don Ordonio, 
That your illustrious son, who fought so bravely 
Some four years since to quell these rebel Moors 
Should prove the patron of this infidel ! 
The warranter of a Moresco's faith ! 
Now I return. 

Alk. My Lord, my husband's name 
Is Isidore. {Ordonio starts.) — You may remember it : 
Three years ago, three years this very week, 
You left him at Almeria. 

Mon. Palpably false I 

This very week, three years ago, my lord, 
(You needs must recollect it by your wound) 
You were at sea, and there engaged the pirates, 
The murderers doubtless of your brother Alvar I — 
What, is he ill, my Lord ? how strange he looks I 

Val. You pressed upon him too abruptly, father. 
The fate of one, on whom, you know, he doted. 

Ord. heavens I I ? — I doted ? — 
Yes I I doted on him. 

[Ordonio walks to the end of the stage, Valdez foUotcs 

Ter. I do not, can not love him. Is my heart hard ? 
Is my heart hard ? that even now the thought 
Should force itself upon me ? — Yet I feel it ! 

Mon. The drops did start and stand upon his forehead ' 
I will return. In ver)' truth, I grieve 
To have been the occasion. Ho I attend me, woman I 

Alh. {to Tere^sa.) O gentle lady I make the father stay 


Until iny lord recover. I am sure 

That he will say he is my husband's friend. 

Ter, Stay, father ! stay I my lord will soon recover : 

Ord. (as they return to VcUdez.) Strange, that this Monviedru 
Should have the power so to distemper me ! 

VaL Nay, 'twas an amiable weakness, son ! 

Mon. My lord, I truly grieve 

Ord. Tut ! name it not 

A sudden seizure, father ! think not of it. 
As to this woman's husband, I do know him. 
I know him well, and that he is a Christian. 

Mon. 1 hope, my lord, your merely human pity 
Doth not prevail 

Ord, 'Tis certain that he was a catholic ; 
What changes may have happened in three years* 
I can not say ; but grant me this, good father : 
Myself I'll sifl him : if I find him sound. 
You'll grant me your authority and name 
To liberate his house. 

Mon. Your zeal, my lord. 

And your late merits in this holy warfare 
Woulil authorize an ampler trust — ^you have it. 

Ord. I will attend you home within an hour. 

Val. Meantime return with us, and take refreshment. 

Alh. Not till my husband's free ! I may not do it. 
I will stay here. 

Ter. (aside.) Who is this Isidore ? 

Val. Daughter! 

Ter. With your permission, my dear lord, 
I'll loiter yet awhile t' enjoy the sea breeze. 

[Exei4?it Valdez, Monviedro, and Ordonio. 

Alh. Hah ! there he goes ! a bitter curse go with him, 
A scathing curse ! 
You hate him, don't you, lady ? 

Ter. Oh fear not me ! my heart is sad for yoa 

Alh. These fell inquisitors ! these sons of blood 
As I came on, his face so maddened me. 
That ever and anon I clutched my dagger 
And half unsheathed it 

Ter. Be more calm, I pray yon. . 

364 RBllOBSS. 

Alh. And as he walked along the narrow path 
Close by the mountain's edge, my soul grew eager ; 
'Twas with hard toil I made myself remember 
That his Familiars held my babes and husband. 
To have leapt upon him with a tiger's plunge, 
And hurl'd him down the rugged precipice, 
0, it had been most sweet ! 

Ter, Hush ! hush, for shame ! 

Where is your woman's heart ? 

Alh. gentle lady ! 

You have no skill to guess my many wrongs. 
Many and strange ! Besides, I am a Christian, 
And Christians never pardon — 'tis their faith ! 

Ter. Shame fall on those who so have shown it to tbeo * 

Alh. I know that man ; 'tis well he knows not me. 
Five years ago (and he was the prime agent). 
Five years ago the holy brethren seized me. 

Ter. What might your crime be ? 

Alh. I was a Moresco ! 

They cast me, then a young and nursing mother, 
Into a dungeon of their prison house ; 
Where was no bed, no fire, no ray of light. 
No touch, no sound of comfort I The black air. 
It was a toil to breathe it I when the door, 
Slow opening at the appointed hour, disclosed 
One human countenance, the lamp's red flame 
Cowered as it entered, and at once sank down. 
Oh miserable I by that lamp to see 
My infant quarrelling with the coarse hard bread 
Brought daily : for the little wretch was sickly — 
My rage had dried away its natural food. 
In darkness I remained — the dull bell counting. 
Which haply told me, that the all-cheering sun 
Was rising on our garden. When I dozed. 
My infants moanings mingled with my slumbers. 
And waked me. — If you were a mother, lady, 
I should scarce dare to tell you, that its noises 
And peevish cries so fretted on my brain. 
That I have struck the innocent babe in anger. 

Ter. Heaven ! it is too horrible to hear. 

RRM0R8E. 865 

Alh, What was it then to sufier ? 'Tis laost right 
^ That such as you should hear it. — Know you not, 
What nature makes you mourn, she hids you heal ? 
Great evils ask great passions to redress them. 
And whirlwinds fitliest scatter pestilence. 

Ter. You were at length released ? 

Alh. Yes, at length 

I saw the hlessed arch of the whole heaven ! 
'Twas the first time my infant smiled. No more — 
For if I dwell upon that moment, Lady, 
A trance comes on which makes me o'er again 
All I then was — my knees hang loose and drag, 
And my lip falls with such an idiot laugh, 
That you would start and shudder ! 

Ter. But your hushand — 

Alh. A month's imprisonment would kill him, Lady. 

Ter. Alas, poor man 1 

Alh. He hath a lion's courage. 

Fearless in act, but feeble in endurance ; 
Unfit for boisterous times, with gentle heart 
He worships nature in the hill and valley, 
Not knowing what he loves, but loves it all — 

Enter Alvar disguised as a Moresco, and in Moorish gar* 

Ter. Know you that stately Moor ? 

Alh. I know him not . 

But doubt not he is some Moresco chieflain, 
Who hides himself among the Alpnj arras. 

Ter. The Alpujarras ? Does he know his danger, 
So near this seat ? 

Alh. He wears the Moorish robes too. 

As in defiance of the royal edict. 

[AUmdra advances to Alvar, tcho lias tcalked to the back oj 
tJie stagey near the rocks. Teresa drops her veil 

Alh. Gallant Moresco ! An inquisitor, 
Monviedro, of known hatred to our race — 

Alv* You have mistaken me. I am a Christian. 

Alh. He deems, that we are plotting to ensnare him ; 
)e>peak to him. Lady — none can hear you speak, 
And not believe you innocent of gaile. 


Ter. If aught enforce you to concealment, Sir — 

Alh, He trembles strangely. 

[Alvar sinks dawrit and hides his face in his robe. 

Ter. See, we have disturbed him. 

[approaches fiearer to kim. 
I pray you think us friends — uncowl your face, 
For you seem faint, and the night breeze blows healing. 
I pray you think us friends ! 

Alv, (raisiyig his Jiead). Calm, very calm . 
*Tis all too tranquil for reality ! 
And she spoke to me with her innocent voice. 
That voice, that innocent voice ! She is no traitress ! 

Ter. Let us retire, {fiaughtily to AlJiadra.) 

Alh. He is indeed a Christian. 

Alv. {aside.) She deems me dead, yet wears no mourning gar 
raent I 
Why should my brother's — wife — wear mourning garments? 

{To Teresa.) 
Your pardon, noble dame ! that I disturbed you : 
1 had just started from a frightful dream. 

Ter. Dreams tell but of the past, and yet 'tis said. 
They prophesy — 

Alv, The Past lives o'er agam 

In its effects, and to the guilty spirit 
The ever frowning Present is its imaore. 

2Vr. Traitress I {then aside.) 

What sudden spell overmasters me ? 
Why seeks he me, shunning the Moorish woman ? 

Alv. I dream'd I had a friend, on whom I lean'd 
With blindest trust, and a betrothed maid. 
Whom I was wont to call not mine, but me : 
For mine own self seem'd nothing, lacking her. 
This maid so idolized, that trusted friend 
Dishonored in my absence, soul and body I 
Fear, following guilt, tempted to blacker guilt, 
And murderers were suborned against my life. 
But by my looks and most impassioned words, 
I roused the virtues that are dead in no man, 
Even in the assassins' hearts ! they made their terms, 
And thanked me for redeeming them from murder. 


Alh, You are lost in thought : hear him no more, sweet Lady ! 
Ter. From morn to night I am myself a dreamer, 
And slight things bring on me the idle mood ! 
AVell, Sir, what happened then ? 

Alv. On a rude rock, 

A rock, methought, fast by a grove of firs, 
Whose thready leares to the low-breathing gale 
Made a soft sound most like the distant ocean, 
I stayed, as though the hour of death were passed. 
And I were sitting in the world of spirits — 
For all things seemed unreal ! there I sate — 
The dews fell clammy, and the night descended, 
Black, sultry, close ! and ere the midnight hour 
A storm came on, mingling all sounds of fear, 
That woods, and sky, and mountains, seemed one havoo. 
The second Rash of lightning showed a tree 
Hard by me, newly scathed. I rose tumultuous : 
My soul worked high, I bared my head to the storm, 
And with loud voice and clamorous agony, 
Kneeling I prayed to the great Spirit that made me, 
Prayed, that Remorse might fasten on their hearts, 
And cling with poisonous tooth, inextricable 
As the gored's lion's bite ! 

Ter. A fearful curse I 

Alh, But d'ream'd you not that you returned and killed them '^ 
Dream' d you of no revenge ? 

Alv. She would have died. 

Died in her guilt — perchance by her own hands I 
And bending o'er her self-inflicted wounds, 
I might have met the evil glance of frenzy. 
And leapt myself into an unblest grave ! 
I prayed for the punishment that cleanses hearts ; 
For still I loved her I 

Alh, And you dream'd all this ? 

Ter, My soul is full of visions all as wild ! 

Alh. There is no room in this heart for puling love tales. 

Ter, (lifts up her veil aiid advances to Alvar,) Stranger, 
farewell ; I guess not who you are, 
Nor why you so addressed your tale to roe. 
Your mien is noble, and, I own, perplexed me 

^^^^^^^■r ahu you aecd strengtli to drag ihom into 
^^^^^^K ^e generous Valdez, and my Lord Ordra 
^^^^^^^V If ive arm and will to aid a noble sufierei 

^^^^^ Nor eliail von xvanl iiiv Tavurable i)l..M(iiii. 

^H AIv. {alone.) 'Tisstraugel Ii can not 

^^ Her Lord Ordonio ! Nay, I will not do it 

^H I nirsad liim once — and one curse is eooug 

^H How sad ahc looked, and pale ! but not Lk 

^H And her calm tones — sweet as a song of n 

^H If the bad spirit letain'd bis augel's voice, 

H Hell scarce were Heli. And why uot inno. 

^1 Who meant to murder me, might well chea 

^1 But eru site married him, he had stained h« 

^P Ah I there 1 am hampered. What if this - 

H Framed by the assassin ? Wiio should lell 

I If it were truth ? Ordonio would not lell h 

I Yet why one lie ? all el&e, I know, was tiut 

II No start, uo jealousy of stirring conscience ! 
H And she refened to me — fondly, methoughtl 
I Uould she walk here if she had been a iraiti 
ft Here, where we playtd together in our child 
H llere, where we plighted vows ? where her < 
I Rectfived my last kiss, when with stippresged 
P She hail r«!n.-i ; ' - 



Scene I. — A unld and mountainous Country. Grdonio and 
Isidore are discovered, supposed at a little distance from Isi" 
dore's liouse. 

Ord. Here we may stop : your house distinct in view, 
Yet we secured from listeners. 

hid. Now indeed 

My house ! and it looks cheerful as the clusters 
Basking in sunshine on yon vine-clad rock, 
That overbrows it ! Patron ! Friend ! Preserver I 
Thrice have you saved my life. Once in the battle 
You gave it me : next rescued me from suicide : 
\Vhen for my follies I was made to wander, 
With mouths to feed, and not a morsel for them : 
Now, but for you, a dungeon's slimy stones 
Had hecn my bed and pillow. 

Ord. Good Isidore ! 

^yhy this to me ! It is enough, you know it. 

Isid. A common trick of gratitude, my lord, 
Seeking to ease her own full heart 

Ord. Enough ! 

A debt repaid ceases to be a debt. 
You have it in your power to serve me greatly. 

Isid. And how, my lord 9 I pray you to name the thing. 
I would climb up an ice-glazed precipice 
To pluck 'a weed you fancied I 

Ord. Why— that— Lady— 

Isid. 'Tis now three years, my lord, since last I saw you : 
Have you a son, my lord ? 

Ord. ' miserable — [aside 

Isidore ! you are a man, and know mankind. 
I told you what I wished — now for the truth — 
She loved the man you kill'd. 

Isid. You jest, my lord ? 

Ord. And till his death is proved she will not wed me. 

Isid. You sport with me, my lord ? 

Ord. Come, come ! this foolery 

Lives only in thy looks, thy heart disowns it ! 


Isid. I can bear this, and any thing more grievoas 
From you, my lord — but how can I serve you here ? 

Ord. Why, you can utter with a solemn gesture 
Oracular sentences of deep no-meaning, 
Wear a quaint garment, make mysterious antics — 

Jsid. I am dull, my lord ! I do not comprehend yoo. 

Ord. In blunt terms, you can play the sorcerer. 
She hath no faith in Holy Church, 'tis true ; 
Her lover schooled her in some newer nonsense ; 
Yet still a tale of spirits works upon her. 
She is a lone enthusiast, sensitive. 
Shivers, and can not keep the tears in her eye : 
And such do love the marvellous too well 
Not to believe it. We will wind up her fancy 
With a strange music, that she knows not of — 
With fumes of frankincense, and mummery, 
Then leave, as one sure token of his death, 
That portrait, which from off the dead man's neck 
I bade thee take, the trophy of thy conquest. 

Jsid. Will that be a sure sign ? 

Ord. Beyond suspicion. 

Fondly caressing him, her favor'd lover, 
(By some base spell he had bewitched her senses) 
She whispered such dark fears of me forsooth, 
As made this heart pour gall into my veins. 
And as she coyly bound it round his neck 
She made him promise silence ; and now holds 
The secret of the existence of this portrait I 

Known only to her lover and herself. 
But I had traced her, stolen unnotic'd on them, 
And unsuspected saw and heard the whole. 

Isid. But now I should have cursed the man who told me 
You could ask aught, my lord, and I refuse — 
But this I can not do. 

Ord. Where lies your scruple ? 

Isid. Why — why, my lord I 
You know you told me that the lady lov'd you, 
Had loved you with incautious tenderness ; 
That if the young man, her betrothed husband, 
Betumed, yourself, and she, and the honor of both 

Must perJBh. Now tboagh with no tenderer acniplea 
Than Ihote which being native to the heart, 
Than those, rov lord, which merely being a man — 

Ord. Thia fellnw is a man— he killed for hire 
One whom he knew not, yet has tender scmples '. 

[ Then turning to Intlom- 
These doubts, these fears, thy whine, thy stammering — 
Pi»li, fool ! thou blimd'reit through the book of guilt, 
Spelling thy vilUiiy. 

hill. My lord — my lord, 

1 can bear much — yes, very much from you ! 
But there's a point where suSeranco is meanness ; 
1 am no villain — never kill'd lor hire — 
My gratitude — 

Ord. aye — your gratitude I 

'Twas a well-sounding word — what have you done with it ? 

hid. Who proifers his pwt favors for niy virtue — 

Old. Virtue 

liid. Tries to o'erreuch mo — is a very sharper, 
And should not speak of gratitude, my lord. 
I knew not 'twas your brother ! 

Ord. And who told you ? 

Md. He himself told me. 

Ord. Ha 1 you talk'd willi him ! 

And those, the two Morescoes who were with you ? 

liid. Both fell in a night brawl at Malaga. 

Ord. {in a law voice.) My brother— 

liid. Yes, my lord, I could not tell you ! 
J thrust away the thought — it drove me wild. 
But listen to me now — I pray you listen 

Ord. Villain ! no more. I'll hear no more of it. 

Isid. My lord, it much imports your future safety 
That yon should hear it 

Ord. {turning off from Isidore.) Am not 1 a man ! 
Tis as it should be ! tut — the deed ilscll" 
VVus idle, and these aller-pangs still idler! 

Isid. Wo met him in the very place you mentioned. 
Hard by B grove of firs — 

Ord. Enough — enough— 

vol.. vn Q 

He said, ^^Tmt nieau you, friends 
I luve a brolher and a pronuaed 
Who make life dear to mo — and i 

That brollier will roum oarlli :in(i 
Thi-n; was a liktiio;* in Ins \m-^ 1 
1 asked his brothec's iianii: : lie e; 
Hon of Lord Vuldez I 1 had well i 
At length I said (if thot indc«d I 
And that no spirit made my longt 
Tliat woman is diahonoted by Iha 
And he the man who sent ns 1o d< 
He drove a thrust at me in mge. 
He wore her portrait round liia ncc 
Am he had been made of the rook t: 
Aye, juBt as you look now — only le 
At length recovering from his tranc 
His sword away, and bade us take 
It was not worth: his keeping. 

Ord. An. 

Oh hlood-hounds ! may eternal wra 
He was bis Makcr'a image undefac 
It ceizcs me — by Hell I will go on 1 
What — would'Ht thou stop, tnan ? ll 
Oh cold— cold— cold : shot thrjiich 

KEMORSH.. 863 

Or the blind elements stirred up within me ? 

If good were meant, why were we made these beings ? 

And if not meant — 

Isid. You are disturbed, my lord ! 

Ord. (starts.) A gust of the soul ! i'faith it overset me. 

'twas all folly — all ! idle as laughter ! 
Now, Isidore ! I swear that thou shalt aid me. 

Jsid. (in a loio voice.) I'll perish first! / 

Ord. What dost thou mutter of ? 

Isid. Some of your servants know me, I am certain. 

Ord. There's some sense in that scruple ; but we'll mask yoit 

Isid. They'll know my gait : but stay ! last night 1 watched 
A stranger near the ruin in the wood, 
Who as it seemed was gathering herbs and wild ilowerb. 

1 had followed him at distance, seen him scale 
Its western wall, and by an easier entrance 
Stole aAer him unnoticed. There I marked, 
That mid the chequer work of light and shade 
With curious choice he plucked no other flowers. 
But those on which the moonlight fell : and once 

I heard him muttering o'er the plant. A wizard — 
Some gaunt slave prowling here for dark employment. 

Ord. Doubtless you question'd him ? 

Isid. 'Twas my intention, 

Having first traced him homeward to his haunt. 
But lo ! the stern Dominican, whose spies 
Lurk everywhere, already (as it seemed) 
Had given commission to his apt familiar 
To seek and sound the Moor ; who now returning. 
Was by this trusty agent stopped midway. 
I, dreading fresh suspicion if found near him 
In that lone place, again concealed myself ; 
Yet within hearing. So the Moor was question'd, 
And in your name, as lord of this domain. 
P» udly ho answered, *• Say to the Lord Ordonio, 
Ko that can bring the dead to life again !" 

Ord. A strange reply ! 

Isid. Aye, all of him is stranga 

He called himself a Christian, yet he wears 
The Moorish robes, as if he courted death. 


Ord. Where does this wizard live ? 

Isid. (pointing to the distance.) You eee that brooklet ? 
Trace its course backward : thro* a narrow opening 
It leads you to the place. 

Ord. How shall I know it ? 

Isid. You can i.ot err. It is a small green dell 
Built all around with high ofi-sloping hills, 
And from its shape our peasants aptly call it 
Tlic Giant's Cradle. There's a lake in the midst. 
And round its banks tall wood that branches over. 
And makes a kind of faery forest grow 
Down in the water. At the further end 
A puny cataract falls on the lake ; 
And there, a curious sight ! you see its shadow 
Forever curling, like a wreath of smoke, 
Up through the foliage of those faery trees. 
His cot stands opposite. You can not miss it. 

Ord. (in retiri?ig stops suddenly at the edgeof tlie scene, *nia 
then turning round to Isidore.) Ha ! — who lurks there I 
Have we been overheard ? 
There where the smooth high wall of slate-rock glitters 

Isid. 'Neath those tall stones, which propping each the othei. 
Form a mock portal with their pointed arch ? 
Pardon my smiles I 'Tis a poor idiot boy. 
Who sits in the sun, and twirls a bough about, 
His weak eves seethd in most unmeaning tears. 
And so he sits, swaying his cone-like head. 
And, staring at his bough from morn to sunset, 
See-saws his voice in inarticulate noises. 

Ord. 'Tis well I and now for this same wizard s lair. 

Isid. Some three strides up the hill, a mountain-ash 
Stretches its lower boughs and scarlet clusters 
O'er the old thatch. 

0*d. I shall not fail to find it. 

[Exeunt Ordonio and Isidore. 


Scene II — Tlie inside of a Cottuge, around which Jlotcers and 

plants of various kinds are se4:n. 

Discovers Alvar, Zulimez and Alliadra, cl8 on tJie point of 


Alh. {addressi?ig Alvar.) Farewell then! and though manj 
thoughts perplex me, 
Aught evil or ignoble never can I 
Suspect of thee I If what thou seem'st thou art, 
The oppressed brethren of thy blood have need 
or such a leader. 

Alv. Nobly minded woman ! 

Long time against oppression have I fought, 
And for the native liberty of faith 
Have bled and suflered bonds. Of this be certain : 
Time, as he courses onward, still unrolls 
The volume of concealment. In the future, 
As in the optician's glassy cylinder, 
The indistinguishable blots and colors 
Of the dim past collect and shape themselves 
Upstarting in their own completed image 
To scare or to reward. 

I sought the guilty, 
And what I sought I found : but ere the spear 
Flew from my hand, there rose an angel form 
Betwixt me and my aim. With baffled purpose 
To the Avenger I leave vengeance, and depart ! 

Whate'er betide, if aught my arm may aid, 

Or power protect, my word is ple<lged to thee . 

For many are thy wrongs, and thy soul noble. 

Once more, farewell. [Exit Alhadra, 

Yes, to the Belgic states 
\Ve will return. These robes, this stained complexion, 
Akin to falsehood, weigh upon my spirit. 
Wliate'er befall us, the heroic Maurice 
Will grant us an asylum, in remembrance 
Of our past services. 

Zul. And all the wealth, power, influence which is yours, 
You let a murderer hold ? 


Alv. faithful Zulimex ' 

That my return involved Ordonio's death, 
I trust, would give me an unmingled pang, 
Yet hearable : — but when 1 see my father 
Strewing his scant gray hairs, e*en on the ground, 
Which soon must be his grave, and my Teresa — 
Her husband proved a murderer, and her infants — 
His infants — poor Teresa ! — all would perish, 
All perish — all ; and I (nay bear with me) 
Could not survive the complicated ruin ! 

Zul. Nay now I I have distress'd you — you well know, 
I ne'er will quit your fortunes. True, 'tis tiresome : 
You are a painter, one of many fancies I 
You can call up past deeds, and make them live 
On the blank canvas ! and each little herb, 
That grows on mountain bleak, or tangled forest 

You have learnt to name 

Hark ! heard you not some footsteps ? 

Alv. AVhat if it were my brother coming onwards ? 
T sent a most mysterious message to him. 

Enter Ordonio. 
Alv. It is he I 

Ord. {to him:>clf as he enters.) If I distinguished right her 
gait and stature, 
It was the Moorish woman, Isidore's wife, 
That passed me as I entered. A lit taper. 
In the night air, doth not more naturally 
Attract the night flies round it, than a conjurer 
Draws round him the whole female neighborhood. 

[Addressing Alvar. 
You know my name, I guess, if not my person. 
I am Ordonio, son of the Lord Valdez. 
Alv. The son of Valdez I 

{Ordonio walks leisurely round the room, and looks at- 
tentively at the 2)la?Us, 
Zul. (to Alvar.) \{\\\\ what ails you now ? 
How your hand trembles ! Alvar, speak ! what wish you ? 
Alv. To fall upon his neck and weep forgiveness ! 
Ord. (returning and aloud.) Plucked in the moonlight from 
a ruin'd abbey — 


Tho«e only, which the pale rays visited I 

the iiniDtcUigible power of weeds. 

When a few odd prayers have been muttered o'er them : 

Then they work miracles I I warrant you. 

There's not a leaf, but underneath it lurks 

Some serviceable imp. 

There's one of you 
Ifath sent me a strange message. 

Alv. I am he. 

Ord. With you, then, I am to speak : 

(Haughtily leaving his hfuul to Znlimez.) 
A.nd mark you, alono. {Exit Zulimez. 

' He that can bring the dead to life again I'* — 
>iich was your message, Sir ! You are no dullard, 
But one that strips the outward rind of things ! 

Ah. Tis fabled there are fruits with tempting rinds, 
That are all dust and rottenness within. 
Wonld'st thou I should strip such ? 

Ord. Thou quibbling fool. 

What dost thou mean ? Think'st thou I journeyed hither 
To sport with thee ? 

All'. uo, my lord ! to sport 

Best suits the gayety of innocence. 

Ord. (aside.) what a thing is man ! the wisest- heart 
A fool I a fool that laughs at its own folly, 
Yet styll a fool I [Looks round tlie cottage. 

Yo\i are poor I 

Alv, What follows thence ? 

That you would fain be richer 
The Inquisition too — You comprehend me ? 
You are poor, in peril. I have wealth and power, 
Can quench the flames, and cure your poverty ; 
And for the boon I ask of you but this. 
That you should serve me — once — for a few hours. 

Alv. Thou art the son of Yaldez ! would to Heaven 
That I could truly and forever serve thee. 

Ord. The slave begins to soften. [aside 

You are my friend, 
'* Uo that can bring the dead to life again ;" 
Nay, no defence to me ! The holy brethren 

868 REMOfiSS. 

Believe these calumnies — ^I know thee better. 
Thou art a man, and as a man I'll trust thee ! 

Alv. (aside.) Alas ! this hollow mirth — ^Declare yoar 

Ord. I love a lady, and she would love me 
But for an idle and fantastic scruple. 
Have you no servants here, no listeners ? 

[Ordonio steps fo the door 

Alv. What, faithless too ? False to his angel wife ? 
To such a wife ? Well might'st thou look so wan. 

Ill-starr'd Teresa ! ^Wretch ! my seller soul 

Is passed away, and I will probe his conscience ! 

Ord. In truth this lady lov'd another man, 
But he has perish'd. 

Alv. What : you kilFd him ? hey ? 

Ord. I'll dash thee to the earth, if thou but think'st it ! 
Insolent slave I how dar'dst thou — 

[tur?is abruptly from Alvar, and then to himself. 

Why ! what's this ? 
Twas idiocy I I'll tie myself to an aspen, 
And wear a luols cap — 

Alv. Fare thee well — 
I pity thee, Ordonio, even to anguish. 

[Alvar is retiring. 

Ord. Ho I [calling to Alvar. 

Alv. Be brief, what wish you ? 

Ord. You are deep at bartering — You charge yourself 
At a round sum. Come, come, 1 spake unwisely. 

Alv. 1 listen to you. 

Ord. In a sudden tempest. 

Did Alvar perish — he, 1 mean — the lover — 
The fellow 

Alv. Nay, speak out ! 'twill ease your heart 
To call him villain I — ^AVhy stand'st thou aghast ? 
Men think it natural to hate their rivals. 

Ord. Now, till she knows him dead, she will not wed me. 

Alv. Are vou not wedded, then ? Merciful Heaven * 
Not wedded to Teresa ? 

Ord. Why, what ails thee ? 

What, art thou mad ? why look'st thou upward so ? 
Dost pray to Lucifer, Prince of the Air ^ 


All". Proceed, I shall be silent. 

Orel. To Teresa ? 

Politic wizard ! ere you sent that message, 
You had conn'd your lesson, made yourself* proficient 
In all my fortunes. Hah ! you prophesied 
A p:oldcn crop ! Well, you have not mistaken — 
Be faithful to me, and TH pay thee nobly. 

Alv. Well ! and this lady ! 

Ord. If we could make her certain of his death, 
^>he needs must wed me. Ere her lover left her, 
She tied a little portrait round his neck, 
Entreating him to wear it. 

A/v. Yes I he did so I 

Ord. Why no : he was afraid of accidents. 
Of robberies, and shipwrecks, and the like. 
In secrecy he gave it me to keep. 
Till his return. 

Air. What ! he was your friend then ! 

Ord. I was his friend. — 

Now that he gave it me. 
This lady knows not. You are a mighty wizard — 
Can call the dead man up — he will not come — 
He is in heaven then — there you have no influence, 
Still there are tokens — and your imps may bring yon 
Something he wore about him when he died. ^ 

And when the smoke of the incense on the altar 
Is pass'd, your spirits will have left this picture. 
What say you now ? 

Alv. Ordonio, I will do it. 

Ord. We'll hazard no delay. Bo it to-night, 
In the early evening. Ask for the Lord Valdez. 
I will prepare him. Music too. and incense, 
(For I have arranged it — music, altar, incense) 
All shall be ready. Here is this same picture. 
And here, what you will value more, a purse. 
Come early for your magic ceremonies. 

Alv. I will not fail to meet you. 

Ord. Till next we meet, farewell ! 

[Exit Ordonio. 


• {Ale. (alone, indignantly Jiings the purse away, and tfuza 

passionately at the portrait.) 
And I did curse thee ! 
At midnight ! on my knees ! and I helieved 
Thee perjured, tliee a traitress I Thee dishonor'd ' 

blind and rredulous foo^! guilt of folly ' 
Should not thy inarticulate fondnesses, 

Thy infant loves — should not thy maiden vows 

Have come upon my heart ? And this sweet image 

Tied round my neck with many a chaste endearment, 

And thrilling hands, that made me weep and tremble — 

Ah, coward dupe ! to yield it to the miscreant, 

Who spake pollution of thee ! barter for life 

This farewell pledge, which with impassioned vow 

1 had sworn that I would grasp — ev'n in my death-pang ! 

I am unworthy of thy love, Teresa, 

Of that unearthly smile upon those lips, 

Which ever smiled on inc I Yet do not scorn me — 

I lisp'd thy name, ere I had learnt my mother's. 

Dear portrait I rescued from a traitor's keeping, 
1 will not now profane thee, holy image. 
To a dark trick. That worst bad man shall find 
A picture, whicth will wake the hell within him, 
And rouse a fiery whirlwind in his conscience. 


Scene I. — A Hall of armory, tcitli an altar at tlie back of tlu 
stage. Soft inusic from an instrument of glass or ste^. 

Valdez, Ordotio, and Alvar in a Sorcerer's robe, are discovered. 

Old. This was too melancholy, father. 

Val. Nav, 

My Alvar lov'd sad music from a child. 
Once he was lost ; and after weary search 
W^e found him in an open place in the wood, 
To which spot he had followed a blind boy, 
Wlio breath'd into a pipe of sycamore 


iSome strangely moving notes : and these, he said, 
Were taught him in a dream. Him we first saw 
Strctch'd oil the broad top of a sunny heath-baiik 
And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep, 
His head upon the blind boy's dog. It pleas'd mo 
To mark how he had fastened round the pipe 
A silver toy his graudam had late given him. 
Methinks I see him now as he then look*d — 
liven so ! — He had outgrown his infant dress, 
Ye/fetill he wore it. 

Alv. (aside.) My tears must not flow I 
I must not clasp his knees, and cry. My father ! 

Enter Teresa and Attendants. 

Ter. Lord Valdez, you have asked my presence 
And I submit ; but (Heaven bear for me) 
My heart approves it not ! 'tis mockery. 

Ord. Believe you then no preternatural influence ? 
Believe you not that spirits throng around us ? 

Ter. Say rather that 1 have imagined it 
A possible thing ! and it has sooth'd my soul 
As other fancies have ; but ne'er seduced me 
To traffic with the black and frenzied hope, 
That the dead hear the voice of witch or wizard. 
{To Alv.) Stranger, I mourn and blush to .see you here, 
On such employment ! With far other thoughts 
I left you. 

Ord, (aside.) Ha I he has been tampering with her ? 

Alu. high-soul'd maiden ! and more dear to me 
Than suits the stranger's name ! — 

I swear to thee 
I will uncover all concealed guilt. 
Doubt, but decide not ! Stand ye from the alt at 

[Here a strain of music is heard from behind the scene 

Alv. With no irreverent voice or uncouth charm, 
1 call up the departed ! 

Soul of Alvar ! 
Hear our soft suit, and heed my milder spell ; — 
So may the gates of Paradise, unbarr'd, 
Cease thy swift toils ! Since haply thou art ono 
Of that innumerable company 


Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainboWa 

Girdle this round eaith in a dizzy motion. 

With noise too vast and constant to be heard ; — 

Fitliest unheard ! For oh, ye numberless. 

And rapid travellers ! what ear unstunn'd. 

What sense uuinadden'd, might bear up against 

The rushing of your congregated wings? [itfaatV- 

Kven now your living wheel turns o*er ray head ! 

f e, as ye pass, toss high the desert sands, 

That roar and whiten, like a burst of waters, 

A sweet appearance, but a dread illusion 

To the parch'd caravan that roams by night ! 

And ye upbuild on the becalmed waves 

That whirling pillar, which from earth to heaven 

Stands vast, and moves in blackness ! Ye too split 

The ice mount ! and with fragments many and huge 

Tempest the new-thaw*d sea, whose sudden gulfs 

Suck in, perchance, some Lapland wizard's skiffl 

Then round and round the whirlpool's marge ye dance, 

Till from the blue swolii corse the soul toils out. 

And joins your mighty army. 

[Here, behind the aceftes, a voice sings tlu three tcordt, 
" J fear, sweet spirit.'' 

Soul of Alvar ! 
Hear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker charm I 
By sighs unquiet, and the sickly pang 
Of a half dead, yet still undying hope, 
Pass visible before our mortal sense ! 
So shall the Church's cleansing rites be thine. 
Her knells and masses that redeem the dead ! 

SoNO. — Behind the Scenes, accomjxinicd by the ^me Instra 

mcnt as before. 

Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell. 
Lest a blacker charm compel I 
So shall the midnight breezes swell 
With thy deep long-lingering knell. 

And at evening evermore, 
In a chapel on the shore, 


Shall the chanter, sad and saintly, 
Yellow tapers burning faintly, 
Doleful masses chant for thee, 
Miserere Domine ! 

Hark ! the cadence dies away 

On the quiet moonlight sea : 
The boatmen rest their oars and say, 

Miserere Domine ! [A Ung pause 

Ord. The innocent obey nor charm nor spell I 
My brother is in heaven. Thou sainted spirit, 
Burst on our sight, a passing visitant I 
Once more to hear thy voice, once more to sec thee, 

'twere a joy to me I 

Alv. A joy to thee I 

AVhat if thou heard'st him now ? What if his spirit 
Re-enter*d its cold corse, and came u()on thee 
With many a stab from many a murderer's pionard ? 
What (if his steadfast eye still beaming pity 
And brother^s love) he turn'd his head aside, 
licst he should look at thee, and with one look 
Hurl thee beyond all power of penitence ? 

VaL These are unholy fancies I 

Ord. Yes, my father. 

He i.s in Heaven ! 

Alv, {still to Ordonio.) But what if he had a brother, 
Who had lived even so, that at his dying hour. 
The name of Heaven would have convulsed his face, 
More than the death-pang ! 

Val. Idly prating man ! 

Thou hast guess'd ill : Don Alvar's only brother 
Stands here before thee — a father's blessing on him ! 

1 [e is most virtuous. 

Alv. (still to Ordonio,) What, if his very virtues 
Had pampered his swoln heart and made him proud ! 
And what if pride had duped him into guilt ? 
Yet still he stalked a self-created god, 
Not very bold, but exquisitely cunning ; 
And one that at his mother'^ looking-gli 


Would foice his features to a frowning sternness ? 

Young Lord ! I tell thee, that there are such beings^ 

Yea, and it gives fierce merriment to the damn'd« 

To see these most proud men, that loathe mankind, 

At every stir and buzz of coward conscience, 

Trick, cant, and lie, most whining hypocrites ! 

Away, awny ! Now let me hear more music. [music again 

Ter. 'Tis strange, I tremble at my own conjectures ! 
But whatsoe'er it mean, I dare no longer 
Be present at these lawless mysl^ies, 
This dark provoking of the hidden Powers I 
Already I afiront — if not high Heaven — 
Yet Alvar's memory I — Hark I I make appeal 
Against the unholy rite, and hasten hence 
To bend before a lawful shrine, and seek 
That voice which whispers, when the still heart listens. 
Comfort and faithful hope I Let us retire. 

Alv. {to Teresa.) full of faith and guileless love, thy spint 
Still prompts thee wisely. Let the pangs of guilt 
Surprise the guilty : thou art innocent I 

{Exeunt Teresa and Attendayit. Music as before. 
The spell is mutter'd — Come, thou wandering shape, 
Who ovvn'st no master in a human eye, 
Whate'er be this man's doom, fair be it, or foul. 
If he be dead, come I and bring with thee 
That which he prasp'd in death I But if he live. 
Some token of his obscure perilous life. 

[the tvhole music clashes into a Chorus 


Wandering demons hear the spell ! 
Lest a blacker charm compel — 
[ The iiicetisc on the altar takes fire suddenly, and an 
illumi?iatcd picture of Alvar's assassination is dis- 
covered, and having remained a few seconds is tfien 
hidden by tJie ascending flames. 
Ord. {starting.) Duped I duped I duped ! — the traitor Isidore ! 
[At this i?ista7it the doors are forced 02)en, Mofiviedro 
a7id the familiars of the Inquisition, servants, 6fT 
enter and fill the stage. 


Mon. First seize the sorcerer ! suffer him not to speak ! 
The holy judges of the Inquisition 

Shall hear his first words. — Look you pale, Lord Valdez ? 
Plain evidence have we here of most foul sorcery. 
There is a dungeon underneath this castle, 
And as you hope for mild interpretation, 
Surrender instantly the keys and charge of it. 

Ord. {rccavenng himself as from sf.upar, to servants.) "Why 
haste you not ? Off with him to the dungeon ! ^ 

[all rush out in tumult. 

Scene IL — Interior of a chapel, tcith painted taindaics. 

Enter Teresa. 

When first I entered this pure spot, forebodings 
Pressed heavy on my heart : but as I knelt, 
Such calm uwonted bliss possessed my spirit, 
A trance so cloudless, that those sounds, hard by, 
Of trampling uproar fell upon mine ear 
As alien and unnoticed as the rain-storm 
Beats on the roof of some fair banquet room 

While sweetest melodies are warbling 

Enter Valdez. 

Val. Ye pitying saints, forgive a father's blindness, 
And extricate us from this net of peril ! 

Ter. Who wakes anew my fears, and speaks of peril ? 

Val. best Teresa, wisely wert thou prompted I 
This was no feat of mortal agency I 
That picture — Oh, that picture tells me all ! 
With a flash of light it came, in flames it vanished. 
Self-kindled, self-consumM : bright as thy life. 
Sudden and unexpecte<l as thy fate, 
Alvar ! My son ! my son ! — The Inquisitor 

Ter. Torture me not ! But Alvar — Oh of Alvar ? 

Val. How oflen would he plead for these Morescoes ! 
The brood accurst ! remorseless, coward murderers ! 

Ter. So ? so ? — I comprehend you — he i s 

Val. He is no more ! 

Ter. sorrow I that a father's voice should say this, 
A father's heart believe it ! 


VaL A worse sorrow 

Are fancy's wild hopes to a heart despairiDg ! 

Ter. These rays that slant in through those goigteous wiodowi. 
From yon bright orb — though colored as they pass. 
Are they not light ? — Even so that voice, Lord Yaldez ! 
Which whispers to my soul, though haply varied 
By many a fancy, many a wishful hope, 
Speaks yet the truth : and Alvar lives for me I 

Vol. Yes, for three wasting years, thus and no other. 
He has lived for thee — a spirit for thy spirit ! 
My child, we must not give religious faith 
To every voice which makes the heart a listener 
To its own wish. 

Ter. I breath' d to the Unerring 

Permitted prayers. Must those remain unanswered. 
Yet impious sorcery, that holds no commune 
Save with the lying spirit, claim belief? 

VaL not to-day, not now for the first time 
Was Alvar lost to ihee — 

Accursed assassins ! 
Disarm'd, o'crpowered, despairing of defence, 
At his bared breast he seem'd to grasp some relique 
More dear than was his life 

Ter. Heavens I my portrait I 

And he did grasp it in his death-pang I 

Ofi* false demon, 
That beat'st thy black wings close above my head I 

[Ordonio enters with the keys of the dintgeon in his Iiand. 
Hush I who comes here ? The wizard Moor's employer I 
Moors were his murderers., you say ? Saints shield us 

From wicked thoughts 

[ Valdez moves towards the back of t lie stage to meet Or* 
do?iio, a?td during the concluding li^us of Teresa^ i 
speech appears as eagerly conversing with him. 

Is Alvar dead ? what then ? 
The nuptial rites and funeral shall be one I 
Here's no abiding-place for thee, Teresa. — 
Away I they see me not — Thou scest me, Alvar ! 
To thee I bend my course. — But first one question, 


One question to Ordonio. — My limbs tremble — 
There I may sit unmark'd — a moment will restore nie. 

[Retires out.of sight, 

Ord. {as he advances tvithValdez.) These are the dungcoi 
keys. Monviedro knew not, 
That I too had received the wizard's message, 
*' He that can bring the dead to life again." 
But now he is satisfied, I planned this scheme 
To work a full conviction on the culprit, 
And he intrusts him wholly to my keeping. 

Val. *Tis well, my son I But have you yet discovered — 
(Where is Teresa ?) what those speeches meant — 
Pride, and hypocrisy, and guilt, and cunning ? 
Then when the wizard fix'd his eye on you, 
And you, I know not why, look'd pale and trembled — 
Why — why, what ails you now ? — 

Ord. Me ? what ails me ? 

A pricking of the blood — It might have happen'd 
At any other time. — Why scan you me ? 

Val, His speech about the corse, and stabs and murderers 
Boro* reference to the assassins 

Ord. Dup'd ! dup'd I dup'd ! 

The traitor Isidore I \a pause, tlien tcildly, 

I tell thee, my dear father ! 
I am most glad of this. 

VaL True — sorcer}' 

Merits its doom ; and this perchance may guide us 
To the discovery of the murderers. 
I have their statures and their several faces 
So present to me, that but once to meet them 
Would be to recognize. 

Ord. Yes I yes ! we recognize them. 

I was benumb'd, and staggered up and down 
Through darkness without light — dark — dark — dark ! 
My Aesh crept chill, my limbs felt manacleil. 
As had a snake coil'd round them ! — Now 'tis sunshine. 
And the blood dances freely through its channels ! 

[then to hiniselj. 
This is my virtuous, grateful Isidore ! 

[then mimicking Isidore's manner a' id voice. 

378 BBMOB8B. 

" A colimon trick of gratitude, my lord !" 

Old Gratitude ! a dagger would dissect 

His " own full heart" — 'twere good to see its color. 

Vol. These magic sights ! that I ne'er had yielded 
To your entreaties ! Neither had I yielded, 
But that in spite of your own seeming faith 
I held it for some innocent stratagem, 
Which love had prompted, to remove the doubts 
Of wild Teresa — by fancies quelling fancies I 

OtlI. Love ! love ! and then we hate ! and what ? and wher» 
fore ? 
Hatred and love ! fancies opposed by fancies ! 
What, if one reptile sting another reptile ? 
Where is the crime ? The goodly face of nature 
Hath one disfeaturing stain the less upon it. we not all predestined transiency. 
And cold dishonor ? Grant it, that this hand 
Had given a morsel to the hungry worms 
Somewhat too early — Where's the crime of this ? 
That this must necls bring on the idiocy 
Of moist-eyed penitence — 'tis like a dream I 

VaL W^ild talk, my son I But thy excess of feehng 

Almost I fear it hath unhinged his brain. 

Ord. [Teresa reappears and advances slowly.) 
8av, I had laid a body in the sun I 
Well I in a month tliere swarms forth from the corse 
A thousand, nay, ten thousand sentient beings 
In place of that one man. — Say, I had kilTd him I 

[ Teresa stops liUefting. 
Yet who shall tell me, that each one and all 
Of these ten thousand lives is not as happy, 
As that one life, which bein*^ jiush'd aside, 
Made room for these THmumboivd 

VaL mere madness ! 

[Teresa nwas Jtastihf furivanls, and j)la<es Iwrself dp 
recti If before Ordonio. 

Ord Teresa ? or the phantom of Teresa ? 

Ter. Alas I the phantom only, if in truth 
The substance of her being, her lile's life. 
Have ta'on its flijjht throujrh Alvar's death-wound — 


(a pause.) Where — 

(Even coward murder grants llie dead a prave) 
O tell me, Valdez! — answer me, Ordonio! 
Where hes the corse of my betrothed husband ? 

Ord. There, where Ordonio likewise would fain lie I 
In the sleep-compeHing earth, in unpierc'd darkness! 
For while we live — 
An inward day that never, never sets, 
Glares round the soul, and mocks the closing eyelids! 


Over his rocky grave the fir-grove sighs 

A lulHng ceaseless dirge! 'Tis well with him. 

[ Strides off towards the altar, but returns as Valdez is speaking 

Ter. The rock ! the fir-grove ! | To VaUlez 

Did 'at thou hear him say it ? 
Hush ! I will ask him ! 

Val. Urge him not — not now ! 
This we beheld. Nor he nor I know more, 
Than what the magic imagery revealed. 
The assassin, who pressed ibremost of the three 

Ord. A tender-hearted, scrupulous, grateful villain. 
Whom I will strangle ! 

Val. While his two companions — 

Ord, Dead ! dead already ! what care we for the dead ? 

Val. {to Teresa,) Pity him ! soothe him ! disenchant his spirit 
These supernatural shows, this strange disclosure, 
And this too fond affection , which still broods 
0*er Alvar's fate, and still burns to avenge it — 
These struggling with his hopeless love for you, 
Distemper him, and give reality 
To the creatures of his fancy. 

Ord. Is it so ? 

Yes ! yes ! even like a child, that too abruptly 
Roused by a glare of light from deepest sleep 
iStarts up bewildered and talks idly. 

Father ! 
What if the Moors that made my brother's grave, 
Even now were <li«rgiiig ours? AVhal if the bolt, 
Though aini\l. I doubt not, at the son of Valdez, 
Vet miss'd its true aim when it fell on Alvar ? 


Val. Alvar ne'er fought against the Moors, — say ralbei; 
He was their advocate ; but you had marched 
With fire and desolation through their villages.— 
Yet he by chance was captured. 

Ord, Unknown, perhaps, 

Captured, yet as the son of Yaldez, murdered. 
Leave all to ine. Nay, whither, gentle lady ? 

Val. What seek you now ? 

Ter. A better, surer light 

To guide me 

Both Val. and Ord. Whither ? 

Ter. To the only place 

Where life yet dwells for me, and ease of heart. 
These walls seem threatening to fall in upon me I 
Detain me not ! a dim power drives me hence. 
And that will be my guide. 

Val. To find a lover! 

Suits that a high-born maiden's modesty ? 

folly and shame I Tempt not my rage, Teresa ! 
Ter. Hopeless, I fear no human being's rage. 

And am I hastening to the arms Heaven I 

1 haste but to the arave of inv beloved ! 

[Exit, Valdcz following after her, 
Ord. This, then, is mv reward I and I must love her? 
Scorn'd ! shudder'd at ! yet love her still ? yes ! yes ! 
By the deep feelinjrs of revenge and hate 
I will still love her — woo her — win heV too ! 
(a ])ause) Isidore safe and silent, and the portrait 
Found on the wizard — he, belike, self-poison'd 

To escape the crueller flames My soul shouts triumph f 

The mine is undermined I blood I blood ! blood ! 
They thirst for thy blood ! thy blood, Ordonio ! 

The hunt is up ! and in the midnight wood 
With lights to dazzle, and with nets they seek 
A timid prey : and lo ! the tiger's eye 
Glares in the red flame of his hunter's tcrch ! 

To Isidore I will despatch a message, 

And lure him to the cavern I aye, that cavern I 

[a pause. 


He can not fail to find it. Thither I'll lure him, 
Wlieuce he shall never, never more return ! 

[Looks through tlie side tmndow, 
A rim of the sun lies yet upon the sea. 
And now 'tis gone ! All shall be done to-night. 



Scene I. — A cavern, dark, except where a gleam of moonlight 
is seen on one side at the further end ofit; sujyposed to bt 
cast on it from a crevice i?t a jxirt oftlie cavern out of sight. 

Isidore alone, an extinguished torch in his hand. 

Isid. Faith 'twas a moving letter — ^very moving ! 
" His life in danger, no place safe but this ! 
'Twas his turn now to talk of gratitude." 
And yet — but no ! there can't be such a villain. 
It can not be I 

Thanks to that little crevice, 
Which lets the moonlight in ! I'll go and sit by it. 
To peep at a tree, or see a he-goat's beard. 
Or hear a cow or tw^o breathe loud in their sleep — 
Any thing but this crash of water drops ! 
These dull abortive sounds that fret the silence 
With puny thwartings and mock opposition ! 
So beats the death-watch to a sick man's ear. 

[He goes out (f sight, opposite to tlie patch of moonlight^ 
and returns. 
A hellish pit ! The very same I dreamt of! 
I was just in — and those damn'd fingers of ice 
Which clutch'd my hair up I Ha I — what's that — it mov'd. 

[Isidore stands staring at another recess in the cavern. In 
tlie mean time Ordonio enters with a torch, and Jiallocs 
to Isidore. 
Isid, I swear that I saw something moving there. 

The moonshine came \nd went like a flash of lightning 

I swear I saw it move. 

Ord. (goes into tl^e r&;ess, then returns.) A jutting clay stoni* 


Drops on the long lank weed, that grows beneath : 
And the weed nods and drips. 

I$id. A jest to laugh at ! 

It was not that which scar'd me, good my lord. 

Ord. What scared vou, then ? 

Isid. You see that little rift ? 

But first permit me ! 

[LigJUs his torch at Ordonio's, and while ligliling it, 
(A lighted torch in the hand 
Is no unpleasant object here^-one's breath 
Floats round the flame, and makes as many colors 
As the thin clouds that travel near the moon.) 
You see that crevice there ? 
My torch extinguished by these water drops, 
And marking that the moonlight came from thence, 
I stept in to it, meaning to sit there ; 
But scarcely had I measured twenty paces — 
My body bending forward, yea o'erbalanced 
Almost bevoiid recoil, on the dim brink 
Of a huge chasm I stept. The shadowy moonshine 
Filling the void so counterfeited substance, 
That my foot hung aslant adown the edge. 
Was it my own fear ? 

Fear too hath its instincts I 
(And yet such dens as these are wildly told of.) 
And there arc beings that live, yet not for the eye. 
An arm of frost above and from behind me 
Pluck'd up and snatched me backward. Merciful Heaven ! 
You smile ! alas, even smiles hwk ghastly here ! 
My lord, I pray you, go yourself and view it. 

Ord. It must have shot some pleasant feelings through you 

Isid. If every atom of a dead man's llesh 
Should creep, each one with a particular life, 
Yet all as cold as ever — 'twas just so I 
Or had it drizzled neeiUe points of frost 
Upon a feverish head made suddenly bald — 

Ord, Why. Isidore, 

I blush for thy cowardice. It might have startle*!. 
I grant you, even a brave man for a nioineu* — 
But such a panic — 


Isid. When a boy, my lord ! 

1 could have sate whole hours beside that chasm, 
Push'd in huge stones and heard them strike and rattle 
Against its horrid sides : then hung my head 
Low down, and listened till the heavy fragments 
Sank with faint crash in that still groaning well, 
Which never thirsty pilgrim blest, which never 
A living thing came near — unless, perchance. 
Some blind-worm battens on the ropy mould 
Close at its edge. 

Ord. Art thou more coward now ? 

Isid. Call him that fears his fellow-man a coward f 
I fear not man — but this inhuman cavern, 
It were too bad a prison house tor goblins. 
Beside, (you'll smile, my lord) but true it is. 
My last night's sleep was very sorely haunted 
By what hud passed between us in the morning. 

sleep ol' horrors I Now run down and stared at 
By forms so hideous that they mock remembrance^- 
Now seeing nothing and imagining nothing. 

But only being afraid — stifled with fear ! 

\Miile every goodly or familiar form 

Had a strange power of breathing terror roimd me ! 

1 saw you in a thousand fearful shapes ; 
And I entreat your lordship to believe me. 
In my last dream 

Ord. Well ? 

Isid. I was in the act 

Of falling down that chasm, when Alhadra 
Wak'd me : she heard my heart beat. 

Ord. Strange enough I 

Had you been hero In-'fore ? 

Isid. Never, my lord I 

But mine eyes do not nee it now more clearly. 
Than in my dream I saw — that very chasm. 

Ord. {affer a pause.) 1 know not why it should be ! yet it is — 

Isid. What is, mv lonl ? 

Ord. Abhorrent irom our nature, 
To kill a man — 

Isifl. Except in rtelf-defeuco 


Ord. Why that's my case ; and yet the soul reoails fima i 

Tis so with me at least. But you, perhaps, 
Have sterner feelings ? 

Isid, Something troubles you. 

How shall I serve you ? By the life you gave me. 
By all that makes that life of value to me, 
My wife, my babes, my honor, I swear to you, 
Name it, and I will toil to do the thing, 
If it be innocent ! But this, my lord ! 
Is not a place where you could perpetrate, 
No, nor propose a wicked thing. The darkness, 
When ten strides off we know *tis cheerful mooiuight, 
Collects the guilt, and crowds it round the heart. 
It must be innocent. 

Ord. Thyself be judge. 

One of our family knew this place well. 
Isid. Who ? when ? my lord ? 
Ord, What boots it, who or when ? 
Hang up thy torch — I'll tell his tale to thee. 

[ They ka?ig vp their torches on some ridge m the cavern 
He was a man diflerent from other men, 
And he despised them, yet revered himself 

Isid. (aside.) He ? He despise ? Thou'rt speaking of thyself? 
I am on my guard however : no surprise. 

[ Tfien to Ordonin, 
What, he was mad ? 

Ord. All men seemed mad lo him I 

Nature had made him for some other planet. 
And pressed his soul into a human shape 
By accident or malice. In this world 
He found no fit companion. 

Isid. Of himself he speaks', [aside. 

Alas I jK)or wretch I 
Mad men are mostly proud. 

Ord. He walked alone. 

And phantom thou<jhts unsought-for troubled him. 
Something within would still be shadowing out 
All possibilities ; and with these shadows 
His mind held dalliance. Once, as so it happened, 
A fancy crossed him wilder than the rest : 


To this in moody murmur and low voice 
He yielded utterance, as some talk in sleep : 
The man who heard him. — 

Why didst thou look round ? 

Isid. I have a prattler three years old, my lord ! 
Ill trulh he is my darling. As I went 
From forth my door, he made a moan in sleep — 
But I am talking idly — pray proceed ! 
And what did this man ? 

Ord. With this human hand 

He gave a substance and reality 
To that wild fancy of a possible thing. — 
Well it was done ! 

Why babblest thou of guilt ? 
The deed was done, and it passed fairly oil*. 
And he whose tale I tell thee — dost thou listen ? 

Isid. I would, my lord, you were by my fireside, 
I'd listen to you with an eager eye. 
Though you began this cloudy tale at midnight. 
But I do listen — ^pray proceed, my lord. 

Ord. Where was I ? 

Isid, Ho of whom you tell the tale^ — 

Ord. Surveying all things with a quiet scorn. 
Tamed himself down to living purposes. 
The occupations and the semblances 
Of ordinary men — and such he seemed ! 
But that same over ready agent — he — 

Isid. Ah I what of him, my lord ? 

Ord. He proved a traitor. 

Betrayed the mystery to a brother traitor, 
And they between them hatch'd a damned plot 
To hunt him down to infamy and death. 
What did the Yaldez ? I am proud of the name 
Kince he dared do it. — 

[Ordonio grasps his sword, a?id turns off from Isidore, then 
af'cr a jxiusc returns. 

Our links burn dimly. 

Isid. A dark tale darkly fmished ! Nay, my lonl 1 
Tell what he did. 

Ord. That which h's wisdom prompted — 



lie made the traitor meet him in this caveni. 
And here he kill'd the traitor. 

hid. No ! the fool ! 

He had not wit enough to he a traitor. 
Poor thick-eved beetle! not to have foreseen 
That he who gulled thee with a whimpered lie 
To murder his own brother, would not scruple 
To murder thee, if e'er his guilt grew jealous, 
And he could steal upon thee in the dark ! 
Ord, Thou wouldst not then have come, if — 
Isid. Oh yes, my lord ! 
I would have met him arm'd, and scar'd the coward. 

{Isidore throws off his robe; sliows himself anned, and 
d rates his sicord. 
Ord. Now this is excellent and warms the blood ! 
My heart was drawing back, drawing me back 
With weak and womanish scruples. Now my vengeance 
Beckons me onwards with a warrior's mien, 
And claims that life, my pity robbed her of — 
Xow will I kiJl thet', thankless slave, and count it 
A.mong my comfortable thoughts hereafter. 
hid. And all mv little ones fatherless — 

Die thou first. 
{They f^ht, Onhuio disarms Isidore, and in disarming 
liim throws his sicord up that recess- opposite to ichich 
thvy were standing. Isidore hurries into the recess 
iritJi, his torchy Ordonio follows him ; a loud cry of 
" Traitor! Mo?ister /" is heard from tJte cavern, and 
i/i a inoment Ordonio returns alone. 
Ord. I have hurled him down the chasm ! treason for treason. 
He dreamt of it : henceforward let him sleep, 
■V dreamless slecj), i'roin which no wife can wake him. 
His dream too is made out — now for his friend. 

[Exit Ordonio. 

Scene II.* — Thr interior Court (f a Saracenic or Gothic 
Castle, with the. iro/i gate tf a du)igcon visible. 

Ter. Heart-chilling superstition ! thou canst glaze 
Ev'n pity's eye with her own frozen tear. 

* Se« Appendix, p. 40.'5. 


[n vdin I urge the tortures that await him : 
Even Sclma, reverend guardian of my childhood, 
My second mother, shuts her heart against me ! 
Well, I have won from her what most imports 
The present need, the secret of the dungeon 
Known only to herself. — A Moor ! a Sorcerer ! 
No, I have faith, that nature ne'er permitted 
Jiasoness to wear a form so nohle. True, 
I doubt not, that Ordonio had suborned him 
To act 'some part in some unholy fraud ; 
As little doubt that for some unknown purpose 
He hath baflled his suborner, terror-struck him. 
And that Ordonio meditates revenge ! 
But my resolve is fixed ! myself will rescue him. 
And learn if haply ho knew aught of Alvar. 

Enter Valdez. 

Val. Still sad ? — and gazing at the massive door 
Of that fell dungeon which thou neVr had'st sight of. 
Save what, perchance, thy infant fancy shaped it 
AVhen the nurse stilfd thy cries with unmeant threats. 
Now by my faith, girl ! this same wizard haunts thee ! 
A stately man, and eloquent and tender — 
\Vho then need wonder if a lady sighs 
Even at the thought of what these stern Dominicans— 

Ter. The horror of their ghastly punishments 
Doth so o*crtop the height of all compassion. 
That I should feel too little for mine cnemv, 
[f it were possible I could feel more. 
Even though the dearest inmates of our household 
Were doom'd to sufl'er them. That such things are — 

Val. Hush, thoughtless woman 1 

Ter. Nay, it wakes within me 

More than a woman's spirit. 

Val. No more of this — 

What if Monviedro or his creatures hear us ! 
[ dare not listeu to you. 

Tct'. My honored lord, 

These were my Alvar's lessons, and whene'er 
I l>end me o'er his portrait, I repeat them, 
As if to give a voice to the mute image. 

388 lOSMOBBE. 

Vol, We have monmed for Aivar. 

Of his sad fate there now remains no douht 
Have I no other son ? 

Tcr. Speak not of him ! 

That low imposture ! That mysterious picture ! 
If this he madness, must I wed a madman ? 
And if not madness, there is mystery, 
And guilt doth lurk behind it. 

Vat. Is this well ? 

Ter. Yes, it is truth : saw you his countenance ? 
How rage, remorse, and scorn, and stupid fear 
Displaced each other with swift interchanges ? 

that I had indeed the sorcerer's power. 

1 would call up before thine eyes the image 
Of my betrothed Alvar, of thy first-born ! 
His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead, 
His tender smiles, lovers day-dawn on his lips I 
That s])iritual and almost heavenly light 

In his conimauding eye — his mien heroic, 
Virtue's own native heraldry I to man 
Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel. 
Whene'er he gladdeu'd, how the gladness spread 
Wide round him I and when oft with swelling tears, 
Flash'd through bv indijrnalion he bewail'd 
The wrongs ol' Belgium's martyr'd patriots, 
Oh, what a grief was there — lor joy to envy. 
Or gaze u})on enamord I 

O my father ! 
Recall that morning when we knelt together. 
And thou didst bless our loves ! even now, 
Even now, my sire I to thy mind's eye present him. 
As at that moment ho rose up before thee, 
Stately, with beaming look ! Place, place beside him 
Ordonio's dark perturbed coimtenance I 
Then bid me (O thou couldst not) bid me turn 
From him, the joy, the triumph of our kind I 
To take in exchange that brooding man who never 
Lifks up his eye from the earth, unless to scowl. 

Val. Ungrateful woman I 1 have tried to stillo 
An old man's passion ! was it not enough. 


That thou hast made my son a restless man, 
Banish'd his health., and half unhing'd his reason ; 
But that thou wilt insult him with suspicion ! 
j\nd toil to blast his honor ? I am old, 
A comfortless old man ! 

Ter. grief ! to hear 

Hateful entreaties from a voice we love ! 

Kilter a Peasayit ami presefits a letter to Valdez. 

Val. {reading it.) ** He dares not venture hither !" Wbjf 
what can this mean ? 
*• Lest the Familiars of the Inquisition, 
That watch around my gates, should intercept him ; 
But he conjures me, that without delay 
I hasten to him — for my own sake entreats me 
To guard from danger him I hold imprisoned — 
He will reveal a secret, the joy of which 
Will even outweigh the sorrow." — ^Why what can this be ? 
Perchance it is some Moorish stratagem. 
To have in me a hostage for his safety. 
Nay, that they dare not ! Ho I collect my servants I 
I will go thither — let them arm themselves. 

[Exit Valdez. 

Ter, (alone.) The moon is high in heaven and all is hush'd. 
Yet anxious listener ! I have seemed to hear 
A low dead thunder mutter thro* the night. 
As 'twere a giant angr}' in his sleep. 

Alvar ! Alvar I that they could return 

Those blessed days that imitated heaven, 

When we two wont to walk at eventide 

When we saw naught but beauty ; when we heard 

The voice of that Almighty One who loved us 

In every gale that breathed, and wave that mnrmuiHl ! 

we have listen'd, even till high-wrought pleasure, 

Hath half assumed the countenance of grief. 

And the deep sigh seemed to heave up a weight 

Of bliss, that pressed too heavy on the heart. 

And this majestic Moor, seems he not one 
Who oil and long communing with my Alvar, 

[a pante. 


Hath drunk in kindred lustre from his preMaoa» 
And guides me to him with reflected light ? 
What if in yon dark dungeon coward treachery 
Be groping for him with envenomed poniard — 
Hence womanish fears, traitors to love and duty — 
I'll free him. [Exit 

Scene III. — Tlie mountains by moonlight 

AUiadra alone in a Moorish dress, 

Alh. Yon banging woods, that touch'd by autumn seem 
As they were blossoming hues of fire and gold ; 
The flower-like woods, most lovely in decay, 
The many clouds, the sea, the rock, the sands, 
Lie in the silent moonshine : and the owl, 
(Strange I very strange !) the scritch-owl only wakes I 
Sole voice, sole eye of all this world of beauty ! 
Unless, perhaps, she siiij^ her screeching song 
To a herd of wolves, that skulk athirst for blood. 
Why such a thing am I ? — Where are these men ? 
I need the sympathy of human laces, 
To beat away tliis deep contempt for all things. 
Which quenches my revenge. Oh I would to Alia, 
The raven, or the sea-mew, were appointed 
To bring me food I or rather that my soul 
Could drink in life from the universal air ! 
It were a lot divine in some small skifl' 
Along some Ocean's boundless solitude, 
To float forever with a careless course, 
And think myself the only being alive ! 

My children I — Isidore's children I — Son of Valdez, 

This hath new strung mine arm. Thou coward tyrant ! 

To stupefy a woman's heart with anguii^h, 

Till she Ibrgot — even that she was a mother I 

\Slie fixes her eye on the earth. Then drop in one afte7 
anotlier, from different parts of tJie stage, a considerable 
number of Morescoes, all in Moorish garments and Moor* 
ish artnor, TJiey form a circle at a distance round 
Alhadra, and remain silent till Naomi enters. 


Nao. Woman ! May Alia and the prophet bless thee ! 
We have obeyed thy call. Where is our chief? 
And why didst thou enjoin these Moorish garments ? 

Alk. {raising J^r eyes, and looking round on Uie circle,) 
Warriors of Mahomet ! faithful in the battle ! 
My countrymen ! Come ye prepared to work 
An honorable deed ? And would ye work it 
In the slave's garb ? Curse on those Christian robes ! 
They are spell-blasted : and whoever wears them, 
His arm shrinks withered, his heart melts away, 
And his bones soften. 

JVao, Where is Isidore ? 

Alh. This night I went from forth my house, and left 
His children all asleep : and he was living ! 
And I retum'd and found them still asleep, 

But he had perished 

All Morescoes. Perished ? 

Alh. He had perished ! 

Sleep on, poor babes ! not one of you doth know 
That he is fatherless — a desolate orphan ; 
Why should we wake them ? Can an infant's arm 
Revenge his murder ? 

One Morescoe, (to another.) Did she say his murder ? 

Nao. Murder ? Not murdered ? 

Alh. Murdered by a Christian ! 

\They all at once draw their sabres. 
Alh. (To Naomi, wJio advances from tlie circle.) Brother ol 
Zagri I fling away thy sword ; 
This is thy chieftain's I [He steps forward to take it. 

Dost thou dare receive it ? 
For I have sworn by Alia and the Prophet, 
No tears shall dim these eyes, this woman's heart 
Shall heave no groan, till I have seen that sword 
Wet with the life-blood of the son of Valdez I [a pause, 

Ordonio was your chieftain's murderer ! 

Nao. He dies, by Alia ! 

All. (kneeling.) By Alia ! 

Alh. This night your chieftain armed himself, 
And hurried from me. But 1 followed him 
At distance, till I saw him enter— there. 

^92 &EMOBSB. 

Nao. The caveni ? 

Alh. Yes, the mouth of yonder cavern. 
Afler a while I saw the son of Valdez 
Rush hy with flaring torch ; he likewise entered. 
There was another and a longer pause ; 
And once me thought I heard the clash of swords I 
And soon the son of Yaldez re-appeared : 
He flung his torch towards the moon in sport, 
And seemed as he were mirthful ! I stood listening. 
Impatient for the footsteps of my hushand ! 

Nao. Thou called'st him ? 

Alh, I crept into the cavern — 

*Twas dark aud very silent. 

What saidst thou ? 
No ! no ! I did not dare call, Isidore, 
Lest I should hear no answer ! A hrief while, 
Belike, I lost all thought and memory 
Of that for which I came I After that pause, 

Heaven I I heard a groan, and followed it : 
And yet another groan, which guided me 
Into a strange recess — and there was light, 

A hideous light ! his torch lay on the ground ; 
Its flame burnt diinlv o'er a chasm's brink : 

1 spake ; and whilst 1 spake, a ieeble groan 

Came from that chasm ! it was his last 1 his death-groan I 

Nao. Comfort her, Alia. 

Alh. I stood in unimaginable trance 
And agony that can not be rememberecf, 
Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan ! 
But I had heard his last : my husband's death groan f 

Nao. Haste ! let us onward. 

Alh. I looked far down the pit— 

My sight was bounded by a jetting fragment : 
And it was stained with blood. Then first I slirieked, 
My eyeballs burnt, my brain grew hot as fire. 
And all the hanging drops on the wet roof 
Turned into blood — I saw them turn to blood ! 
And I was leaping wildly down the chasm, 
When on the farther bank I saw his sword, 
And it said, Vengeance ! — Curses on my toogue I 


riie moon hath moved in Heaven, and I am here, 
And he hath not had vengeance ! Isidore ! 
Spirit of Isidore ! thy murderer lives ! 
Away ! away ! 

AIL Away I away ! 

[Sfie ruslies off^ allfoUoioing her 


Scene I. — A Dungeon. 

Alvar (alojie) rises slowly from a bed of reeds, 

Alv, And this place my forefathers made for man ! 
This is the process of our love and wisdom > 

To each poor brother who oO'ends against us — 
Most innocent, perhaps — and what if guilty ? 
Is this the only cure ! Merciful God ! 
Each pore and natural outlet shrivelled up 
By ignorance and parching poverty, 
His energies roll back upon his heart 
And stagnate and corrupt, till chang'd to poison, 
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot I 
Tlien we call in our pampered mountebanks ; — 
And this is their best cure ! uncomforted 
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears 
And savage faces, at the clanking hour, 
Seen through the steam and vapors of his dungeon 
By the lamp's dismal twilight 1 So he lies 
Circled with evil, till his very soul 
Unmoulds its essence hopelessly deformed 
By sights of evermore dcfonnity ! — 
With other ministrations thou, Nature ! 
Healest thy wandering and di8tem])ered child : 
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences. 
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets ; 
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waten I 
Till he relent, and can no more endure 
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing 
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy ; 

894 REMOK8E. 

But, bursting into tears, wins back his way, 
His angry spirit healed and harmonized 
By the benignant touch of love and beauty. 

[ am chill and weary ! Yon rude bench of stone, 
fn that dark angle, the sole resting-place ! 
Rut the self-approving mind is its own light, 
And life's best warmth still radiates from the heart 
Where love sits brooding, and in honest purpose. 

[retires out of sight. 
Enier Teresa tdth a taper. 

Ter. It has chilled my very life — my own voice scares me ; 

Yet when I hear it not 1 seem to lose 
The substance of my being — my strongest grasp 
Sends inwards but weak witness that I am. 
I seek to cheat the echo. — How the half sounds 
Blend with this strangled light I Is ho not here — 

[looking round. 
lor one human face here — but to see 
One human iace here to sustain me. — Courage I 
It is but mv own i'ear ! The life within mc, 
It sinks and wavers like this cone of flame, 
Beyond which I scarce dare look onward I Oh ! 
If I faint? If this inhuman den should be 
At once my -death-bed and my burial vault ? 

[Faintly screams as Alvar emerges ftvr,i the recess. 

Alv. {rushes towards hcr^ ami catclies her as she is falling.) 
gracious heaven ! it is, it is Teresa ! 
Shall I reveal myself? The sudden shock 
Of rapture will blow out this spark of life, 
And joy complete what terror has begun. 

ye impetuous beatings here, be stiil I 
Teresa, best beloved I pale, pale, and cold ! 
Her pulse doth flutter ! Teresa I my Teresa ! 

Ter. (recovering;.) I heard a voice ; but often in ray dreams 

1 hear that voice ! and wake and try — and trv — 
To hear it waking I but I never could — 

And 'lis so now — even so ! Well I he is dead — 
Murdered perhaps I And I am faint and feel 
As if it were no painful thing to die I 



[a paute, 
[a pause 

Aiv. Believe it not, sweet maid ! Believe it not, 
Beloved woman ! 'Twas a low imposture 
Framed by a guilty wretch. 

Tcr. Ha ! Who art thou ? 

Alv. Suborned by his brother — 

Ter. Didst thou murder him ? 

And dost thou now repent ? Poor troubled man, 
I do forgive thee, and may Heaven forgive thee ! 

Alv. Ordonio — he — 

Tcr. If thou didst murder him — 

His spirit ever at the throne of God 
Asks mercy for thee, — prays for mercy for thee, 
With tears in Heaven ! 

Air. Alvar was not murdered. 

Be calm ! be calm, sweet maid ! 

Ter. Nay, nay, but tell me I 

'tis lost again ! 
This dull confused pain — 

Mysterious man ! 
Methinks I can not fear thee : for thine eye 
Doth swim with love and pity — Well ! Ordoni( 
Oh my foreboding heart ! And he suborned thee. 
And thou didst spare his life? Blessings shower on thee, 
As many as the drops twice counted o'er 
In the iond faithful heart of his Teresa! 

Air. 1 can endure no more. The Moorish sorcerer 
Exists but in the stain u|M)n his face. 
Tliat ])icturo — 

Tcr. Ha ! speak on I 

Alv. Beloved Teresa ! 

It told but half the truth. let this portrait 
Tell all — that Alvar lives — that he is here I 
Thy much deceived but ever faithful Alvar. 

\take.H her port rait f ram his iicck and gives U her, 

Ter. {receirififr the jwrfruit.) Tlie same — it is the fame. 
Ah : Who art thou ? 
Nay, I will call thee, Alvar I [stie fails on his nec^; 

Alv. joy unutterable ! 

But hark I a sound as of removing bars 
At the dungeon's outer diNtr. A brief, brief while. 


Conceal thyself, my love ! It is Ordonio. 
For the honor of our race, for our dear father ; 
for himself too (he is still my hrother) 
Let me recall him to his nobler nature. 
That he may wake as from a dream of murder ! 
O'let me reconcile him to himself, 
Open the sacred source of penitent tears, 
And be once more his own beloved Alvar. 

Ter. my all virtuous love ! I fear to leave thee 
With that obdurate man. 

Alv. Thou dost not leave me I 

But a brief while retire into the darkness : 

that my joy could spread its sunshine round thee ! 
Ter, The sound of thy voice shall be my music ! 

Alvar ! my Alvar ! am I sure I hold thee ? 

Is it no dream ? thee in my arms, my Alvar ! \Eixil, 

\A noise at tlie dungeon door. It opens, atid Ordomo 
cTifers, icith a goblet in his hand. 
Ord. Hail, potent wizard ! in my gayer mood 

1 poured forth a libation to old Pluto, 

And as I brimmed the bowl, I thought on thee. 
Thou hast conspired against my life and honor. 
Hast tricked me foully ; yet I hate thee not. 
Why should I hate thee ? this same world of ours, 
*Tis but a pool amid a storm of rain, 
And we the air bladders that course up and down, 
And joust and tilt in merry tournament ; 
And when one bubble runs foul of another 
The weaker needs must break. 

Alv, I see thy heart I 

There is a frightful glitter in thine eye 
"Which doth betray thee. Inly-tortured man. 
This is the revelry of a drunken anguish. 
Which fain would scoff away the pang of guilt. 
And quell each human feeling. 

Ord. Feeling I feeling! 

The death of a man — the breaking of a bubble— 
'Tis true I can not sob for such misfortunes ; 
But faintness, cold and hunger — curses on me 


it* willingly I e'er inflicted them ! 

Jutne, take the beverage ; this chill place demands it. 

Ordonio i^offert ilne ^Met^ 

Alv, Yon insect on the wall, 
vViiioh moves this way and that its hundred limbs, 
Were it a toy of mere mechanic crail, 
ft were an infinitely curious thing I 
But it has life, Ordonio ! li.'o ! enjoyment ! 
A.ud by the power of its miraculous will 
Wields all the complex movements of its frame 
Unerringly to pleasurable ends ! 
Saw I that insect on this goblet's brim 
I would remove it witb an anxious pity I 

Ord. What meanest thou ? 

Alv. There's poison in the wine. 

Ord, Thou hast guessed right ; there's poison in the wine 
There's poison in't — which of us two shall drink it ? 
For one of us must die ! 

Alv. Whom dost thou think me ? 

Ord. The accomplice and sworn friend of Isidore. 

Alv. I know him not. 

And yet methinks, I have heard the name but lately. 
Means he the husband of the Moorish woman ? 
Isidore ? Isidore ? 

Ord, Good ! good ! that lie ! by heaven it has restored me. 
Now I am thy master I Villain ! thou shalt drink it, 
Or die a bitterer death. 

Alv. What strange solution 

Hast thou found out to satisfy thy fears, 
And drug them to unnatural sleep ? 

\Alvar takes the gMet, a?id throws it to the ground 

My master ! 

Ord. Thou mountebank ! 

Mv. Mountebank and villain ! 

What then art thou ? For shame, put up thy sword ! 
What boots a weapon in a withered arm ? 
I fix mine eye upon tiiee. and thou trcmblest ! 
I speak, and fear and wonder crush thy rage. 
And turn it to a motionless distraction! 
Thou blind self-worshiper 1 thy pride, thy cunning 


Thy faith in univenal villany, 

Thy shallow sophisms, thy pretended scorn 

For all thy human brethren — out upon them I 

What have they done for thee ? have they given thee peaoe I 

Cured thee of starting in thy sleep 1 or made 

The darkness pleasant when thou wak'st at midnight ? 

Alt happy when alone ? Canst walk by thyself 

With even step and quiet cheerfulness ? 

Yet, yet thou raay'st be saved 

Ord. Saved ? saved ? 

Alv. One pang I 

Could I call up one pang of true remorse ! 

Ord. He told me of the babes that prattled to him, 
His fatherless little ones ! remorse ! remorse ! 
Where got'st thou that fool's word % Curse on remorse I 
Can it give up the dead, or recompact 
A mangled body ? mangled — dashed to atoms ! 
Not all the blessings of a host of angels 
Can blow away a desolate widow's curse I 
And the' thou spill thy heart's blood ibr atonement, 
It will not weigh against an orphan's tear I 

Alv. But Alvar 

OnL Ha I it chokes thee in the throat 

Even thee ; and yet I pray thee speak it out. 
Still Alvar I — Alvar — howl it in mine ear ! 
Heap it like coals of fire upon my heart, 
And shoot it hissing through my brain I 

Alv. Alas I 

That day wheiv thou didst leap from ofi' the rock 
Into the waves, and grasp thy sinking brother. 
And bore him to the strand ; then, son of Valdez, 
How sweet and musical the name of Alvar I 
Then, then, Ordonio, he was dear to thee. 
And thou wert dear to him I Heaven only knows 
How very dear thou wert I Why didst thou hate him; 
heaven ! how he would fall upon thy neck 
And weep forgiveness ! 

Ord. Spirit of the dead ! 

Methinks I know thee ! ha ! my brain turns wild 
At its own dreams! — ofT— off, fantastic shadow! 


Ah. I fain would tell thee what I am, but dare not I 

Grd. Cheat ! villain I traitor I whatsoever thou be — 
I fear thee, man ! 

Ter. (rushing out and falling on Alvars neck ) Ordonio !• 
'tis thy brother. 

[Ordonio runs upon Alvar vrith his stvord. Teresa 
flings herself on Ordonio and arrests his arm. 

Stop, madman, stop ! 

Alv Does then this thin dis^ise impenetrably 
Hide Alvar from thee ? Toil and painful wounds 
And long imprisonment in unwholesome dungeons. 
Have marred perhaps all trait and lineament 
Of what I was ! But chiefly, chiefly, brother, 
My anguish for thy guilt ! 

Ordonio — ^brother I 
Nay, nay, thou shalt embrace me. 

Ord. {drawing back and gazing at Alvar.) Touch me not. 
Touch not pollution, Alvar ! I will die. 

[lie attempts to fall on his sivord, Alvar and Teresa pre 
vent him. 

Alv. "VVe will find means to save your honor. Live, 
Oh live, Ordonio ! for our father's sake ! 
Spare his gray hairs ! 

Ter. And you may yet be happy ! 

Ord. horror ! not a thousand years in heaven 
Could recompose this miserable heart. 
Or make it capable of one brief joy ! 
Live ! live ! Why yes ! Twere well to live with you : 
For is it fit a villain should be proud ? 

My brother I I will kneel to you, my brother ! [kneeling 

Forgive me, Alvar ! — Curse me with forgiveness ! 

Alv. Call back thy soul, Ordonio, and look around thee 1 
Now is the time for greatness ! Think that heaven — 

Ter. mark his eye ! he hears not what you say. 

Ord. Yes, mark his eye ! there's fascination in it ! 
Thou saidst thou didst not know him — That is he ! 
He comes upon me ! 

Alv. Heal, heal him, heaven ! 

Ord. Nearer and nearer ! and I can not stir ! 
Will no one hear these stifled groans, and wake me ? 


He would have died to save me, and I killed him-- 
A husband and a father ! — 

'Ter. Some secret poisoa 

Drinks up his spirits ! 

Ord. Let the eternal justice 

Prepare my punishment in the obscure worlds 
I will not bear to live — to live — agony I 
A.nd be myself alone my own sore torment ! 

{the doors of the dungeon are broken open, and in rush 
Alluidra^ and the band of Morescoes, 

Alh, Seize first that man ! 

[Alvar presses ontoard to defend Ordonio. 

Ord. Off, ruffians ! I have ilnng away my sword. 
Woman, my life is thine ! to thee 1 give it ! 
OH*! he that touches me with his hand of fiesh, 
ril rend his limbs asunder I I have strength 
With this bare arm to scatter you like ashes. 

Alh. My husband — 

Ord. Yes, I murdered him most foully. 

Alv. and Ter. horrible I 

Alh. Why didst thou leave his children ? 

Demon, thou should'st have sent thy dogs of hell 
To lap their blood. Then, then I might have hardened 
My soul in miser}', and have had comfort. 
I would have stood far ofi', quiet though dark, 
And bade the race of men raise up a mourning 
For a deep horror of desolation, 
Too great to be one soul's particular lot I 
Brother of Zagri I let me lean upon thee. 
The time is not vet come for woman's an<ruish, 
I have not seen his blood — Within an hour 
Those little ones will crowd around and ask me, 
Where is our father ? I shall curse thee then \ 
Wert thou in heaven, my curse would pluck thee thence ! 

Ter. He doth repent I See, see, I kneel to thee ! 
let him live ! That aged man his father 

Alh. Why had he such a son ? 

[Sfiouts from (he distance of. Rescue ! Rescue! Alvar ^ 
Alvar I a?id the voice of Valdez heard. 
Rescue ? — and Isidore's spirit unavenged ? — 


The deed be mino ! [suddenly stabs Ordonio, 

Now take my life I 
Ord. (staggering from the wound.) Atonement! 
Alv. {while with Teresa supporting Ordonio,) Arm of avcng* 
ing Heaven, 
Thou hast snatched from me my most cherished hope — 
But go ! my word was pledged to thee. 

Ord, Away I 

llrave not my father's rage ! I thank thee ! Thou — 

[then turning his eyes languidly to Alvar 
She hath avenged the blood of Isidore ! 
I stood in silence like a slave beibre her 
That I might taste the wormwood and the gall, 
And satiate this self-accusing heart 
With bitterer agonies than death can give. 
Forgive me, Alvar! 

Oh I — couldst thou forget me I [Dies 

[Alvar and Teresa bend over tha body of Ordonio, 
Alh. {to the Moars.) I thank thee, Heaven I thou hast ordained 
it wisely, 
That still extremes bring their own cure. That point 
In misery, which makes the oppressed man 
Regardless of his own life, makes him too 
Lord of the oppressor's — Knew I a hundred men 
Despairing, but not palsied by despair. 
This arm should shake the kingdoms of the world ; 
The deep foundations of iniquity 
Should sink away, earth groaning from beneath them : 
The strongholds of the cruel men should fall. 
Their temples and their mountainous towers should fall ; 
Till desolation seemed a beautiful thing. 
And all that were and had the spirit of life, 
Sang a new song to her who had gone forth. 
Conquering and still to conquer ! 

[Alhadra hurries off with tJie Moors ; the stage fills witn 
armed peasants^ and serva?its, Zulimez and Valdez 
at their head. Valdez ruslies into Alvar's arms- 
Alv. Turn not thy face that way, my father ! hide, 
Oh hide it from his eye ! Oh let thy joy 


Thb follow iDg Scene, as unfit for the stage, was taken from the tragcdj 
II the year 1^797, and published in the Lyrical Ballads. 

Enter Terena and Sdma, 

Ter, Tis said, he spake of you faiuiliurly, 
As mine and Alvar's common foster-mother. 

Sel. Now blessings on the man, whoever he be 
That joined your names with mine I O my sweet Liuly, 
As often as I think of those dear times, 
When you two little ones would stand, at eve, 
On each side of my chair, and make me learn 
All you had learnt in the day ; and how to talk 

In gentle phrase ; then bid me sing to you 

Tis more like heaven to come, than what has been I 

Ter. But that entrance, Selma t 

Sel. Can no one hear t It is a perilous tale I 

Ter, No one. 

Sel. My husband's father told it me, 

Poor old Sesina — angels rest his soul *, 
He was a woodman, and could fell and saw 
With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam 
Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel f 
Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree, 
lie found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined 
With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool 
As hang on brambles. Well, he brcvght him home. 
And reared him at the then liord Valdes* cost. 
And so the liabe grew up a pretty boy, 
A pretty boy, but most unteacluiblc — 
And never learn'd a prayer, nor told a bead. 
But knew the names of birds, and mocked their noteii 
And whistled, as he were a bird himselt 
And all the autumn 'twas his only phiy 
To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to phmt them 
With earth and water on the stumps of trees. 
A Friar, who gathcretl simples in the wood. 
A gray-haired man, he loved this little boy : 
The boy loved him, and when the friar taught biu. 


He soon could write with the peo; and from that Ibm 

lived chiefly at the cooveDt or the castle. 

Sd he became a rare and learned youth: 

Bat O I poor wretch ! he read, and read, and rea4 

Till his brain turned ; and ere his twentieth year 

Ue had unlawful thoughts of many thinga : 

And though he prayed, he never loTcd to pray 

With holy men, nor in a holy plaoei 

But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweety 

The late Lord Valdei ne*er was wearied with him. 

And ooce, as by the north side of the diapd 

They stood together chained in deep disoonrae, 

The earth heaved under them with sudi a groan. 

That the wall tottered, and had well nigh fidlen 

Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frighisoad; 

A fever seised him, and he made coofessioa 

Of all the heretical and lawless talk 

Which brought this judgment ; so the youth wai 

And cast into that hole. My husband's lather 

Sobbed like a child — it almost broke his heart: 

And ouce ns he was working near this dungeon. 

He heard a voice distioctly ; 'twas the youth's. 

Who sung a doleful song about green fields, 

How sweet it were on hik<» or wide savanna 

To huut for food, and be a nuked man. 

And wander up and down at liberty. 

He always doted on the youth, and now 

His love grew desperate ; and defying death, 

He made that cunning entrance I described. 

And the young man escaped. 

Ter. Tis a sweet tale : 

Such as would lull a listening cliild to sleep, 
His rosy face besoiled with un wiped tears. 
And what became of him ? 

Sel. He went on shipboard 

With those bold voyagers who made discovery 
Of golden lartds. Sesina's younger brother 
Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain, 
He told Sesina, tliat the poor mad youth. 
Soon after they arrived in that new world, 
In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat. 
And all alone set sail by silent moonlight 
Up a g^eat river, great as any sea, 
And ne'er was heard of more : but 'tis supposed 
Ue lived and died among the savage men. 


Sole to the wordt '* You ore a paiuter," p. 860, Soene iL, Act il 
The following lines I haTe preserved in tliis .place, not so much as ezplaO' 
atory of the picture ot the assassination, as to gratify my own feelings, 
the passage being no mere fancy portrait ; but a slight, yet not unfaithful, 
profile of the late Sir George Beaumont. 

Zul. (speaking of Alvar in the third pertan.) Such was the noble Spao- 
iard 8 own relation. 
He told me, too, how in his eai'ly youth, 
And his first travels, 'twas his choice or chance 
To make long sojourn in sea-wedded Venice ; 
There won the loto of that divine old man, 
G>urted by mightiest kings, the famous Titian 1 
Who, like a second and more lovely Nature, 
By the sweet mystery of lines and colors 
Changed the blank canvass to a magic mirror, 
That made the absent present ; and to shadows 
Gave light, depth, substance, bloom, yea, thought and motioo. 
lie loved the old man, and revered his art : 
And though of neblest birtli and ample for time, 
Tlie young enthusiast thought it no scorn 
But an inalienable ornament. 
To be his pupil, and with filial zeid 
By practice to appropriate the sage lessons 
Wliich the gay, smiling old man gladlj^ gave. 
The art, he honored thuf», requite<l him : 
And in the following and calamitous years 
Beguiled the hours of his captivity. 

Alh, And then he framed this picture ? and unaided 
By arts unlawful, spell, or talisman I 

Alv. A potent spell, a mighty talisman ! 
The imperishable memory of the dead. 
Sustained by love, and grief, and indignation I 
So vivid were the forms within his brain, 
His very eyes, when shut, made pictures of them 1 

» .- 

Z A P L Y A. 


Udp mtpl XP^ TOiavra }Jyeiv ;i;f i^M^of h up^, 




ToB form of the following dramatic poem is in humble imitaikxi of the 
Winter's Tale of Shakspeare, except that I have called the first part a 
Prelade instead of a first Act, as a somewhat nearer resemWanee to the 
plan of the ancients, of which one specimen is left us in the JEathjltan 
Trilogy of the Aganiemnoo, the Orestes, and the EumenideSb Though a 
matter of form merely, yet two playt» oa diBereDt periods of the same 
tale, might seem less bold, than an interval of twenty years between a first 
and secoud act. This is, however, in mere obedience to custom. Tbe effect 
does not, in reality, at all depend on the time of the interval ; but on a very 
different priuciple. There are cases in which an interval of twenty hours 
between the acts would have a worse effect (i. e. render the imoginatiim leas 
disposed to take the position required) than twenty years in other cases. 
For the rest, I shall be well content if my readers will take it up, read and 
iudge it as a Christmas tale. 


Emerick, Usurping King of lilyria. 
Raab KitTRiu, an Jllyrian Chieftain, 
Casimib, Son q/'KiuraiLL 
Chef Raoozzi, a Military CommumdBf, 
Zapolya, Queen 3/ llfyria. 


Scene I. — Frunt of ilie Palace vnth a magnificent Colonnaae 
On otie side a military Gttard-Jiou&e, SefUries pacing back 
tcard and forward before the Palace. 

Chef Ragozzij at the door of the Guard-liousej as ' looking 
forwards at some object in the distance. 

C. Rag. My eyes deceive me not, it must be he, 
Who but our chief, my more than father, who 
But Raab Kiuprili moves with such a gait ? 
Lo ! e'en this eager and unwonted haste 
But agitates, not quells, its majesty. 
My patron ! iny commander ! yes, 'tis ho I 
i^all out the guards. The Lord Kiuprili comes. 

[Drums beat, ^c. tJie Guard turns out. Enter Raab 

R. Kin. (making a signal to stop tJie drums, ^-c.) Silence ! 
enough ! This is no time, young friend ! 
For ceremonious dues. The summoning drum, 
Th* air shattering trumpet, and the horseman's clatter. 
Are insults to a dying sovereign's ear. 
Soldiers, 'tis well I Retire ! your General greets you. 
His loyal fellow- warriors. [Guards retire, 

C. Rag. Pardon my surprise. 

Thus sudden from the camp, and unattended ! 
What may these wonders prophesy ? 

R. Kiu. Tell me first, 

How fares the king ? His majesty still lives ? 

C. Rag. We know no otherwise ; but Emerick's friends 
(And none but they approach him) scoff at hope. 

R. Kiu. Ragozzi ! I have reared thee from a child, 
And as a child I have reared thee. Whence this air 
Of mystery ? That face was wont to open 

VOL. vu. S 



Clear as the morning to me, showing all things. 
Hide nothing from me. 

C. Rag. most loved, most honored, 
The mystery, that struggles in my looks. 
Betrayed my whole tale to thee, if it told thee 
That I am ignorant ; but fear the worst. 
And myster}' is contagious. All things here 
\re full of motion : and }*et all is silent : 
And bad men's hopes infect the good w^ith fears. 

R. Kiu. I have trembling proof within, how true thou speakeit 

C, Rag' That the prince Emerick feasts the soldiery. 
Gives splendid arms, pays the commanders' debts, 
And (it is whispered) by sworn promises 
Makes himself debtor — ^hearing this, thou hast heard 


But what my lord will learn too soon himself. 

R. Kill. Ha I well then, let it come I Worse scarce cai 
This letter written by the trembling hand 
Of royal Andreas calls me from the camp 
To his immediate presence. It appoints me, 
The (iueen, and Emerick, guardians of the realm, 
And of the royal infant. Day by day, 
Robbed of Zapolya's soothing cares, the king 
Yearns only to behold one precious boon, 
And with his life breathe forth a father's blessing. 

C Rag. Remember you, my lord ! that Hebrew leech. 
Whose face so much distempered you ? 

R. Kiu. Barzoni ? 

I held him for a spy ; but the proof failing 
(More courteously, I own, than pleased myself) 
I sent him from the camp. 

C Rag. To him, in chief, 

Prince Emerick trusts his royal brother's health. 

R. Kiu. Hide nothing, I coiyure you ! What of him ? 

C. Rag. With pomp of words beyond a soldier's cunning, 
And shrugs and wrinkled brow, he smiles and whispers I 
Talks in dark words of women's fancies ; hints 
That 'twere a useless and a cruel zeal 
To rob a dying man of any hope, 


However vain, that soothes him : and, in fine, 
Denies all chance of oflspring from the dueeu. 

R, Kill, The venomous snake ! My heel was on its head 
And (fool !) I did not crush it ! 

C. Rag, Nay, he fears, 

Zapolya will not long survive her husband. 

R. Kill. Manifest treason ! Even this brief delay 
Half makes me an accomplic e (If he live,) 

[7s tnoving toioards the palace. 
If he but live and know me, all may 

C. Rag. Halt ! [Slops him. 

On pain of death, my Lord ! am I commanded 
To stop all ingress to the palace. 

R. Kiu, Thou ! 

C. Rag. No place, no name, no rank excepted — 

IL Kin. Thou ! 

C. Rag. This life of mine, take it. Lord Kiuprili ! 
I give it as a weapon to thy hands, 
Mine own no longer. Guardian of Illyria, 
Useless to thee, *tis worthless to myself 
Thou art the framer of my nobler being ; 
Nor does there live one virtue in my soul, 
One honorable hope, but calls thee father. 
Yet ere thou dost resolve, know that yon palace 
Is guanled from within, that each access 
Is thronged by armed conspirators, watched by ruffians 
Pampered with gifts, and hot upon the spoil 
Which that false promiser still trails before them 
I ask but this one boon — reserve my life 
Till I can lose it fur the realm and thee ! 

R. Kin. My heart is rent asunder. my country, 
fallen Illyria, stand I hero spell-bound ? 
Did my King love me ? Did I earn liis love ? 
Have we embraced as brothers would embrace ? 
Was I his arm, his thunder-bolt ? And now 
Must I, hag-ridden, pant as in a dream ? 
Or, like an eagle, whose strong wings press up 
Against a coiling serpent's folds, can I 
Strike but ibr mockery, and with restless beak 
f Tore my own breast ?— Kagozzi tliou art i'aithful ? 


C. Rag. Here before Heaven I dedicate my faith 
To the royal line of Andreas. 

R. Kiu, Hark, Ragozzi ! 

GuilC is a timorous thing ere perpetration : 
Despair alone makes wicked men be bold. 
Come thou with me ! They have heard my voice in flight, 
Have faced round, terror-struck, and feared no longer 
The whistling javelins of their fell pursuers. 
Ha ! what is this ? 

{Black flag displayed from the totaer of the Palace : a 
death bell tolls, (J-c. 
Vengeance of heaven 1 He is dead. 

C. Rag. At length then His announced. Alas * I fear. 
That these black death flags are but treason's signals. 

R. Kiu. A prophecy too soon fulfilled I See yonder ! 

rank and ravenous wolves ! the death bell echoes 
Still in the doleful air — and see I they come. 

C Rag. Precise and faithi'ul in their viliany 
Even to the moment, that the master traitor 
Had pre-ordained them. 

R. Kiu. Was it over-haste, 

Or is it scorn, that in this race of treason 
Their guilt thus drops its mask, and blazons forth 
Their infamous plot even to an idiot's sense. 

C. Rag. Doubtless they deem Heaven too usurp'd ! HeavenV 
Bought like themselves I 

Being equal all in crime. 
Do you press on, ye spotted parricides I 
For the one sole pre-eminence yet doubtful, 
The prize of foremost impudence in guilt ? 

R. Kiu. The bad man's cunning sliil prepares the way 
For its own outwitting. I applaud, Ragozzi I 

Kagozzi, I applaud. 
In thee, the virtuous hope that dares look onward 
And keeps the life-spark warm of future action 
Beneath the cloak of patient sufferance. 
Act and appear, as time and prudence prompt thee : 

1 shall not misconceive the part thou pi ay est. 
Mine is an easier part — to brave the usurper. 


[Enter a procession of Emerick's adJiererUs, nobleSt chief- 
tains, a?id soldiers, wth tnusic. They advance totaard 
t lie front of the stage. Kiuprili viakes tJie sigjialfor 
t/iem to stop. — The music ceases. 
Leader of the Procession. The Lord Kiuprili! — Welcome from 

the camp. 
R. Kill, Grave magistrates and chieflaiiis of Illyria, 

III pood time come ye hither, if ye come 

As loyal men with honorable purpose 

To mourn what can alone be mourned ; but chiefly 

To enforce the last commands of royal Andreas 

And shield the dueen, Zapolya : haply making 

The mother's joy light up the widow's tears. 

Leader. Our purpose demands speed. Grace our procession ; 

A warrior best will greet a warlike king. 

R. Kill. This patent written by your lawful king, 

(Ijo ! his own seal and signature attesting) 

Appoints as guardians of his realm and ofispring, 

The dueen, and the Prince Emerick, and myself. 

I Voices of Live King Emerick ! an Emerick ! an Emerick ! 

What means this clamor ? Are these madmen's voices ? 

Or is some knot of riotous slanderers leagued 

To infamize the name of the king's brother 

With a lie black as Hell ? unmanly cruelty, 

Ingratitude, and most unnatural treason ? [murmurs. 

What mean these murmurs ? Dare then any here 

Proclaim Prince Emerick a spotted traitor ? 

One that has taken from you your sworn faith. 

And given you in return a Judas' bribe 

Infamy now, oppression in reversion, 

And heaven's inevitable curse hereafter ? 

[Loud murmurs, follotved by cries — Emerick! No Balni 
Prittcel No Changelings! 

Yet bear with me awhile ! Have I for this 

Bled for your safety, conquered for your honor I 

Was it for this, Illyrians ! that I forded 

Your thaw-swoln torrents, when the shouldering ice 

Fought with the foe, and stained its jagged points 

With gore frr>m wounds, I felt not ? Did tho blast 

Beat on this body, frostpand-famine-numbet^ 


Till my hard flesh distinguished not itself 

From the insensate mail, its follow- warrior ? 

And have I brought home with mc Victory, 

And with her, hand in hand, firm-footed Peace, 

Her countenance twice lighted up with glory, 

As if I had charmed a goddess down from Heaven ? « 

But these will flee abhorrent from the throne 

Of usurpation ! 

[Murmurs increase — and cries of ontcardf onward! 
Have you then thrown oflT shame, 
And shall not a dear friend, a loyal subject, 
Throw off* all fear ? I tell ye, the fair trophies 
Valiantly wrested from a valiant foe, 
Love's natural oflerings to a rightful king, 
Will hang as ill on this usurping traitor. 
This brother-blight, this Emerick, as robes 
Of gold plucked from the images of gods 
Upon a sacrilegious robber's back. 

Enter Lord Casimir. 

Cas. Who is this factious insolent, that dares brand 
The elected King, our chosen Emerick ? 
My father ! 

R. Kin. Casimir I He, he a traitor ! 
Too soon, indeed, Ragozzi ! have I learnt it. \aside, 

Cas. My father and my lord I 

R. Kill. I know thee not I 

Ijcader. Yet the remembrancing did sound right filial. 

R. Kiu. A holy name and words of natural duty 
Are blasted by a thankless traitor's utterance. 

Cas. hear me, Sire ! not lightly have I sworn 
Homage to Emerick. Illyria's sceptre 
Demands a manly hand, a warrior's grasp. 
The queen Zapolya's self-expected ofi'spring 
At least is doubtful : and of all our nobles, 
The king inheriting his brother's heart. 
Hath honored us the most. Your rank, my lord ' 
Already eminent, is — all it can be — 
Confirmed : and me the king's grace hath appointed 
Chief of his council and the lord high steward. 

R. Kiu. (Bought by a bribe !) I know thee now still \i 


Cas. So much of Raab Kiuprili's blood flows here, 
That no power, save that holy name of father, 
Could shield the man who so dishonored me. 

R. Kiu. The son of Raab Kiuprili a bought bond-slaTe 
'Juilt's pander, treason's mouth-piece, a gay parrot, 
SoBoord to shrill forth his feeder's usurp'd titles. 
And scream. Long live king Emerick ! 

Leaders. Aye, king Emerick ! 

Stand back, my lord ! Lead us, or let us pass. 

Soldier. Nay, let the general speak ! 

Soldiers. Hear him ! hear him ! 

R. Kiu. Hear me, 

Assembled lords and warriors of Illyria, 
Hear and avenge me ! Twice ten years have I 
Stood in your presence, honored by the king ; 
Beloved and trusted. Is there one among you 
Accuses Raab Kiuprili of a bribe ? 
Or one false whisper in his sovereign's ear ? 
Who her^ dares charge me with an orphan's rights 
Outfaced, or widow's plea lefl midefended ? 
And shall I now be branded by a traitor, 
A bought, bribed wretch, who, being called my son. 
Doth libel a chaste matron's name, and plant 
Hcnsbane and aconite on a mother's grave ? 
The underling accomplice of a robber, 
That from a widow and a widow's offspring 
Would steal their heritage ? To God a rebel. 
And to the common father of his country 
A recreant ingrate ! 

Cas. Sire I your words grow dangerous. 

High-flown romantic fancies ill-beseem 
Your age and wisdom. 'Tis a statesman's virtue, 
To guard his country's safety by what means 
It best may be protected— come what will 
Of these monk's morals ! 

R. Kiu. {aside.) Ha ! the elder Brutus 

Made his soul iron, though his sons repented, 
They boasted not their baseness. [draws kis stvord 

Infamous changeling ; 
Rocant this instant, and swear loyalty, 


And strict obedience to thy sovereign's will , 
Or, by the spirit of departed Andreas, 

Thou diest 

[Chiefs, Sfc, rush to interpose; during tJie tumuli, 
Enierick, alarmed* 

Erne. Call out the guard ! Ragozzi ! seize the assassin. 

Kiuprili ? Ha ! 

{making signs to tlie guard to retire 
Pass on, friends ! to the palace. 
\Music recommences. — Tlie Procession passes into the 

Erne. What ? Raab Kiuprili ! What ! a father's sword 
Against his own son's breast ? 

R. Kiu. 'Twould best excuse him, 

Were he thy son, Prince Emerick. I abjure him. 

Eme. This is my thanks, then, that I have commenced 
A reign to which the free voice of the nobles 
Hath called me, and the people, by regards 
or love and prace to Raab Kiuprili's house ? 

R. Kill. V> iiat rijrhthadst thou, Prince Emerick, to bestow them7 

Eme. By what right dares Kiuprili question me ? 

R. Kill. By a right common to all loyal subjects — 
To me a duty ! As the realm's co-regent 
Appointed by our sovereign's last free act, 
Writ by himself — {Gras^pina; the Patent.) 

Eme. Ay I — Writ in a delirium ! 

R. Kill. I likewise ask, by M'hose authority 
The access to the sovereign was refused me ? 

Eme. By whose authority dared the general leave 
His camp and army, like a fugitive ? 

R. Kiu. A fugitive, who, with victory for his comrade, 
llan, open-eyed, upon the face of death I 
A fugitive, with no other fear, than bodemenls 
To be belated in a loyal purpose — 
At the command, Prince I of my king and thine. 
Hither 1 came : and now again require 
Audience of Q,Uf;en Zapolya ; and (the States 
Forthwith convened) that thou dost show at large. 
On what ground of defect thou'st dared annul 
This thy King's last and solemn ac\ — \v«i^\. d«L\^ 


Ascend the throne, of which the law had named, 
And conscience should have made thee a protector. 

Erne, A sovereign's ear ill brooks a subject's questioning I 
Yet for thy past well-doing — and because 
'Tis hard to erase at once the fond belief 
Long cherished, that Illyria had in thee 
No dreaming priest's slave, but a Roman lover 
Of her true weal and freedom — and for this, too. 
That, hoping to call forth to the broad daylight 
And fostering breeze of glory all deservings, 
I still had placed thee foremost. 

R. Kiu. Prince ! T listen. 

Erne. Unwillingly I tell thee, that Zapolya, 
Maddened with grief, her erring hopes proved idle — 

Ca$. Sire I speak the whole truth I Say, her fraud detected! 

Erne. According to the sworn attests in council 
Of her physician — 

R. Kiu. {aside.) Yes I the Jew, Barzoni ! 

Emc. Under the imminent risk of death she lies, 
Or irrecoverable loss of reason. 
If known friend's face or voice renew the frenzy. 

Cas. (to Kiuprili.) Trust me, my lord I a woman's trick hat 
duped you — 
Us too — but most of all, the sainted Andreas. 
Even for his own fair fame, his grace prays hourly 
For her recovery, that (the states convened) 
She may take counsel of her friends. 

Enie. Right, Casimir ! 

Receive my pledge, lord general. It shall stand 
In her own will to appear and voice her claims ; 
Or (which in truth I hold the wiser course) 
With all the j)a8t passed by, as family quarrels, 
liCt the Clueen Dowager, with unblenched honors, 
Resume her state, our first Illyrian matron. 

R. Kiu. Prince Emerick ! you speak fairly, and your pledge 
Is such, as well would suit an honest meaning. 

Cas. My lord ! you scarce know half his grace's goodness. 
The wealthy heiress, high-born fair Sarolta, 
Bred in the convent of our noble 1adie«, 


Her relative, the venerable abbess, 

Hath, at his grace's urgence, wooed and won for me. 

Erne. Long may the race, and long may that name flourish, 
Which your heroic deeds, brave chief, have rendered 
Dear and illustrious to all true Illyrians. 

R. Kiu. The longest line that ever tracing herald 
Or found or feigned, placed by a beggar's soul, 
Hath but a mushroom's date in the comparison : 
And with the soul, the conscience is coeval, 
Yea, the soul's essence. 

Erne. Conscience, good my lord, 

Is but the pulse of reason. Is it conscience. 
That a free nation should be handed down. 
Like the dull clods beneath our feet, by chance 
And the blind law of lineage ? That whether infant. 
Or man matured, a wise man or an idiot. 
Hero or natural coward, shall have guidance 
Of a free people's destiny, should fall out 
In the mere lottery of a reckless nature. 
Where few the prizes and the blanks are countless ? 
Or haply that a nation's fate should hang 
On the bald accident of a midwife's handling 
The unclosed sutures of an infant's skull ? 

Cas. What better claim can sovereign wish or need. 
Than the iVee voice of men who love their country ? 
Those chiefly who have fought for't ? Who by right, 
Claim for their monarch one, who having obeyed, 
So hath best learnt to govern ; who having suflered. 
Can feel for each brave suflerer and reward him ? 
Whence sprang the name of Emperor ? Was it not 
By nature's fiat ? In the storm of triumph, 
'Mid warriors' shouts, did her oracular voice 
Make itself heard : L#et the commanding spirit 
Possess the station of command I 

R. Kiu. Prince Emerick, 

Your cause will prosper best in your own pleading. 

Erne, (aside to Casimir.) Ragozzi was thy school-mate— a 
bold spirit ! 
Bind him to us I — Thy father thaws apace ! 

^tKeiv GjUmd 


Leave us awhile, my lord ! — ^Your friend, Ragozzi, 
Whom you have not yet seen since his return, 
Commands the guard to-day. 

[ Casimir retires to the Guard-house ; and after a time 
appears before it tvith Chef Ragozzi. 

We are alone. 
What further pledge or proof desires Kiuprili ? 
Then, with your assent 

R. Kiu. Mistake not for assent 

The unquiet silence of a stern resolve 

Throttling the impatient voice. I have heard thee, Prince I 
And I have watched thee, too ; hut have small faith in 
A plausible tale told with a Hitting eye. 

[JSmerick turns as about to call for the Guard. 
In the next moment I am in thy power, 
hi this thou art in mine. Stir but a step, 
Or make one sign — I swear by this good sword. 
Thou diest that instant. 

Erne. Ha, ha ! — ^Well, Sir I — Conclude your homily. 

R. Kiu. A tale which, whether true or false, comes guarded 
Against all means of proof, detects itself 
The dueen mew'd up — this too from anxious care 
And love brought forth of a sudden, a twin birth 
With thy discovery of her plot to rob thee 
Of a rightful throne I — Mark how the scorpion, falsehood. 
Coils round in its own perplexity, and fixes 
Its sting in its own head ! 

Erne. Ay ! to the mark ! 

R. Kiu. Hadst thou believed thine own tale, hadst thov 
Thyself the righful successor of Andreas, 
Wouldst thou have pilfered from our school-boys' themes 
These shallow sophisms of a popular choice ? 
What people? How convened ? or, if convened, 
Must not the magic power that charms together 
Millions of men in council, needs have power 
To win or wield them ? Better, far better 
Shout forth thy titles to yon circling mountains, 
And with a thousand-fold reverberation 
Make the rocks ilatler thee, and the vo\\eY\T^f^ ^vc« 


Unbribed, shout back to thee, King Emerick ! 

By wholesome laws to embank the sovereign power. 

To deepen by restraint, and by prevention 

Of lawless will to amass and guide the flood 

In its majestic channel, is man's task 

And the true patriot's glory ! In all else 

Men safclier trust to Heaven, than to themselves 

V\rhen least themselves in the mad whirl of crowds 

Where folly is contagious, and too oil 

Even wise men leave their better sense at home 

To chide and wonder at them when returned. 

Erne. Is't thus, thou scoff'st the people ? most oi aiU 
The soldiers, the defenders of the people ? 

R. Kill. most of all, most miserable nation. 
For whom the imperial power, enormous bubble ! 
Is blown and kept alofl, or burst and shattered 
By the bribed breath of a lewd soldiery ! 
Chiefly of such, as from the frontiers far, 
(Which is the noblest station of true warriors) 
In rank licentious idleness beleaguer 
City and Court, a vcnom'd thorn i' the side 
Of virtuous kings, the tyrant's slave and tyrant. 
Still ravening for fresh largess ! But with such 
What title claim'st thou, save thy birth ? What menti 
W^hich many a liegeman may not plead as well, 
Brave though I grant thee ? If a life outlabored 
Head, heart, and fortunate arm, in watch and war 
For the land's fame and weal ; if large acquests, 
Made honest by the aggression of the foe. 
And whose best praise is, that they bring us safety ; 
If victor}^ doubly- wreathed, whose under-garland 
Of laurel-leaves looks greener and more sparkling 
Thro' the gray olive-branch ; if these, Prince Emerick ! 
Give the true title to the throne, not thou — 
No I (let Illyria, let the infidel enemy 
Be judge and arbiter between us I) I, 
I were the rightful sovereign I 

JSnie. I have faith 

That thou both think'st and hop'st it. Fair Zapolya, 
A provident lady — 


R. Kiu. Wretch beneath all answer I 

Etne. Offers at once the royal bed and throne. 
R. Kiu, To be a kingdom's bulwark, a king's glory, 
Yet loved by both, and trusted, and trust-worthy, 
Is more than to be king ; but sec ! thy rage 
Fights with thy fear. I will relieve thee ! Ho ! 

[to the Guard. 
Erne. Not for thy sword, but to entrap thee, rufRan ! 
Tims long I have listened — Guard — ho ! from the palace. 

[The Guard-post from tlie Guard-house with CheJ 
Ragozzi at tJieir head, and then a number from thi 
Palace — Chef Ragozzi demaiids KiupriWs sicora 
ami appreliends him. 
Cas. agony I {to Emerick.) Sire, hear me ! 

[to Kiuprili, tclio turns from him 

Hear me, father ! 
Erne. Take in arrest that traitor and assassin ! 
Who pleads for his life, strikes at mine, his sovereign's. 

R. Kiu. As the Co-regent of the realm, I stand 
Amenable to none save to the States 
Met in due course of law. But ye are bond-slaves, 
Yet witness ye that before God and man 
I here impeach Lord Emerick of foul treason, 
And on strong grounds attaint him with suspicion 
Of murder — 

Erne. Hence with the madman I 

R. Kiu. Your dueen's murder, 

The royal orphan's murder : and to the death 
Defy him, as a tyrant and usurper. 

[hurried off by Ragozzi and tlie Guard, 
Erne. Ere twice the sun hath risen, by my sceptre 
This insolence shall be avenged. 

Cas. banish him. 

This infamy will crush me. for my sake, 
Banish him, my liege lord ! 

Erne. What ? to the army ? 

Be calm, young friend ! Naught shall bo done in anger. 
The child o'erpowers the man. In this emergence 
I must take council for us both Retire. 

\Exit Caitmvr 


Erne, {alone, looks at a CeUendar.) The changefbl plaiM^ 
now in her decay, 
Dips down at midnight, to he seen no more. 
With her shall sink the enemies of Emerick, 
Cursed hy the last look of the waning moon : 
And my hright destiny, with sharpened horns, 
8haL greet me fearless in the new-born crescent. YExU. 

Scene duinges to the back of tlie Palace — a tooodcd park and 


Enter Zapolya, tcith an infant in arms. 
Zap. Hush, dear one ! hush ! My trembling arm disturbs thee ! 

Thou, the protector of the helpless I thou, 

The widow's husband and the orphan's father, 

Direct my steps ! Ah whither ? send down 

Thy angel to a houseless babe and mother. 

Driven forth into the cruel wilderness I 

Hush, sweet one I Thou art no Hagar's ofispring : Thou art 

The rightful heir of an anointed king ! 

What sounds are those ? It is the vesper chant 

Of laboring men returning to their home ! 

Their queen has no home I Hear me, heavenly Father ! 

And let this darkness 

Be as the shadow of thy outspread wings 

To hide and shield us ! Start'st thou in thy slumbers ? 

Thou canst not dream of savage Emerick. Hush I 

Betray not thy poor mother I For if they seize thee 

I shall grow mad indeed, and they'll believe 

Thy wicked uncle's lie. Ha ! what ? A soldier ? 

Enter Chef Ra ^oz z i. 
C. Rag. Sure heaven befriends us. Well I he hath escaped I 

rare tune of a tyrant's promises 

That can enchant the serpent treacher}' 

From forth its lurking hole in the heart. " Ragozzi I 

brave Ragozzi ! Count I Commander I What not ?** 

And all this too for nothing! a poor nothing ! 

Merely to play the underling in the murder 

Of my best friend Kiuprili ! His own son — monstrous I 

Tyrant I I owe thee thanks, and in good hour 

Will I repay thee, for that thou thought' «^t rae loo 


A serviceable villain. Could I now 

But gain some sure intelligence of the queen : 

Heaven bless and guard her ! 

Zrty?. (coming fortcard.) Art thou not Ragozzi ? 

C. Rag. The Q,ueen ! Now then the miracle is full I 
I see heaven's wisdom is an over-match 
For the devil's cunning. This way, madam, haste ! 

Zap. Stay I Oh, no ! Furi^ive me if I wrong thee I 
This is thy sovereign's child : Oh, pity us, 
And be not treacherous ! [kneeling. 

C. Rag. {raising Jicr.) Madam ! For mercy's sake I 

Zap. But tyrants have a hundred eyes and arms ! 

C. Rag. Take courage, madam I 'Twere too horrible, 
(I can not do't) to swear I'm not a monster! — 
Scarce had I barr'd the door on Kaab Kiuprili 

Zap. Kiuprili I How ? 

C Rag. There is not time to tell it, — 
The tyrant called me to him, praised my zeal 
(And be assured I overtopt his cunning 
And seemed right zealous.) But time wastes : In fine, 
Bids me despatch my trustiest friends, as couriers 
With letters to the army. The thought at once 
Flashed on me. I disguised my prisoner 

Zap. What ! Raab Kiuprili ? 

C. Rag. Yes ! my noble general. 
I sent him off, with Emcrick's own packet. 
Haste, and post haste — Prepared to follow him 

Z,ap. Ah, how? Is it joy or fear? My limbs seem sinking!— 

C. Rag. (supporting fier.) Heaven still befriends us. 1 havn 
left my charger, 
A gentle beast and fleet, and my boy's mule. 
One that can shoot a precipice like a bird, 
Just where the wood begins to climb the mountains. 
The course we'll thread will mock the tyrant's guesses, 
Or scare the followers. Ere we reach the main road 
The Lord Kiuprili will have sent a troop 
To escort me. Oh, thrice happy when ho finda 
The treasure which I convoy I 

Zap. One brief moment. 

That praying for strenirth I may have ftlTenglYi. TVv\%\^iXM% 


Heaven's eye is on it, and its innocence 

Is, as a prophet's prayer, strong and prevailing ! 

Through thee, dear babe, the inspiring thought posBesaed me, 

When the loud clamor rose, and all the palace 

Emptied itself — (They sought my life, Ragozzi !) 

Like a swill shadow gliding, I made way 

To the deserted chamber of my lord. — [then to the infant. 

And thou didst kiss thy father's lifeless lips, 

And in thy helpless hand, sweet slumberer ! 

Still clasp'st the signet of thy royalty. 

As I removed the seal, the heavy arm 

Dropt from the couch aslant, and the stifi" finger 

Seemed pointing at my feet. Provident Heaven ! 

Lo, I was standing on the secret door, 

Which, through a long descent where all sound perishcb, 

Led out beyond the palace. Well I knew it 

But Andreas framed it not ! He was no tyrant ! 

C Hug. Haste, madam I Let me take this precious burden I 

[he kneels as fie takes ttie child. 

Zap. Take him ! And if we be pursued, I charge thee, 
Flee thou and leave me ! Flee and save thy king I 

\the7i as going off^ sJie looks back on the palace 
Thou tyrant's den, be called no more a palace I 
The orphan's angel at the throne of heaven 
Stands up against thee, and there hover o'er thee 
A Q,ueen's, a Mother's, and a Widow's curse. 
Henceforth a dragon's haunt, iear and suspicion 
Stand sentry at thy portals I Faith and honor. 
Driven from the throne, shall leave the attainted nation : 
And, for the iniquity that houses in thee. 
False glory, thirst of blood, and lust of rapine, 
(Fateful conjunction of malignant planets) 
Sliall shoot their blastments on the land. The fathers 
Henceforth shall have no joy in their young men, 
And when they cry : Lo ! a male child is born I 
The mother shall make answer with a groar. 
For bloody usurpation, like a vulture. 
Shall clog its beak within lUyria's heart. 
Remorseless slaves of a remorseless tyrant, 
They shall be mocked with sounds of liberty . 



And liberty shall be proclairaed alono 

To thee, Fire ! Pestilence ! sword I 

Till Vengeance hath her fill. — And thou, snatched hence, 

Poor friendless fugitive I with mother's wailing, 

Ollppring of royal Andreas, shall return 

With trump and timbrel clang, and popular shout 

In triumph to the palace of thy fathers ! [Exeunt 

^- "rnT^J 


Z A P L Y Aj 




Old Bathort, a Mountaineer. 

Bethlen Bathort, Th€ ycung Prince Andreas, 9uppo9ed mm of Old Batbobt 

Lord Rcdolpo, a Courtisr, but friend to the Queen*9 party. 

Laska, Steward to C.iSiMiK, betrothed to Glycine. . 

Pestalutz, an Afsaasin, in Kmlrick's employ. 

ItADT Sabolta, Wt/e of Lord Casimir. 

Glycine, Orphan Daut^hter of Qoev Ragozzi. 

Between the flight of the Queen, and the civil war which immediately fa'Iowed, 
and in which Einerick remained the victor, a space of twenty years is sup' 
posed to have elapsed. 



Scene I. — A Mountainous country. Batlwrtjs dwelling at the 

end of tlie stage. 

Enter Lady Sarolta and Glycine. 

Gly. Well then ! our round of charity is finished. 
Rest, Madam ! You breathe quick. 

Sar What, tired, Glycine ? 
No delicate court-dame, but a mountaineer 
By choice no less than birth, I gladly use 
The good strength nature gave inc. 

Gly. That last cottage 

Is bui]t as if an eagle or a raven 
Had chosen it for her nest. 

Sar, So many are 

The sufferings which no human aid can reach. 
It needs must be a duly doubly sweet 
To heal the few we can. Well I let us rest. 

Gly. There ? [Pointing to Bathory's dicdliny* 

Sar. Here I For on this spot Lord Casimir 
Took his last leave. On yonder mountain-ridge 
I lost the misty image which so long 
Lingered, or seemed at least to linger on it. 

Gly. And what if even now, on that same ridge, 
A speck should rise, and still enlarging, lengthening, 
As it clomb downwards, shape itself at last 
To a numerous cavalcade, and spurring foremost, 
Who but Sarolta*8 own dear lord returned 
From his high embassy ? 

Sar. Thou hast hit m^ l\vougVi\.\ 


All the long day, from yester-mom to evening. 
The restless hope fluttered about my heart. 
Oh we are querulous creatures ! Little less 
Than all things can suffice to make us happy ; • 
And little more than nothing is enough 
To discontent us. — ^Were he come, then should 1 
Repine he had not arrived just one day earlier 
To keep his birth-day here, in his own birth-place. 

Gly. But our best sports belike, and gay processions 
"Would to my lord have seemed but work-day sights 
Compared with those the royal court aflbrds. 

Sar, I have small wish to see them. A spring moming 
With its wild gladsome minstrelsy of birds, 
And its bright jewelry of flowers and dew-drops 
(Each orbed drop an orb of glory in it) 
Would put them all in eclipse. This sweet retirement 
Lord Casimir's wish alone would have made sacred : 
But in good truth, his loving jealousy 
Did but command, what I had else entreated. 

Gly. And yet had I been born Lady Sarolta, 
Been wedded to the noblest of the realm, 
So beautiful besides, and yet so stately 

Sar. Hush I innocent flatterer I 

Gly. Nay I to my poor fancy 

The royal court would seem an earthly heaven, 
Made for such stars to shine in, and be gracious. 

Sar. So doth the ignorant distance still delude us ! 
Thy fancied heaven, dear girl, like that above the<5, 
In its mere self a cold, drear, colorless void, 
Seen from below and in the large, becomes 
The bright blue ether, and the seat of gods I 
Well I but this broil that scared you from the dance ? 
And was not Laska there : he, your betrothed ? 

Gly. Yes, madam I he was there. So was the maypole. 
For we danced round it. 

Sar. Ah, Glycine ! why, 

Why did you then betroth yourself? 

Gly. Because 

My ovra dear lady wished it I *twas you asked me ! 

Sar. Yei«. at my lord's request, but never wished. 


My poor aflectionate girl, to see thee wretched. 
Thou k newest not yet the duties of a wife. 

Gly. Oh, yes I It is a wife's chief duty, madam ! 
To stand in awe of her hushand, and ohey him, 
And, I am sure, I never shall see Laska 
But I shall tremble. 

Sar. Not with fear, 1 think, 

For you still mock him. Bring a seat from the cottage. 

[Exit Glycine into the cottage, Sarolta continues her speech 
looking after Jier. 
Something above thy rank there hangs about thee, 
And in thy countenance, thy voice, and motion, 
Yea, e*en in thy simplicity, Glycine, 
A fuie and feminine grace, that makes me feci 
More as a mother than a mistress to thee ! 
Thou art a soldier's orphan ! that — the courage, 
Which rising in thine eye, seems oft to give 
A new soul to its gentleness, doth prove thee ! 
Thou art sprung too of no ignoble blood. 
Or there's no faith in instinct ! 

[angry voices aiul danwr within. Re-enter Glycine, 

Gly. Oh, madam ! there's a party of your servants, 
And my lord's steward, Laska, at their head. 
Have come to search for old Bathory's son, 
Bethlen, that brave young man ! 'twas he, my lady, 
That took our parts, and beat off the intruders, 
And in mere spite and malice, now they charge him 
With bad words of Lord Casimir and the king. 
Pray don't believe them, madam I This way I This way ! 
Iiady Sarolta's here — [calling taithouC 

Sar. Be calm, Glycine. 

Enter Laska and Servants tcith Old Batlwry. 

Las. (to Bathory.) We have no concern with you! What 
needs your presence ? 

O. Bath. What ! Do you think I'll suflcr my bravo boy 
To be slandered by a set of coward ruffians, 
And leave it to their malice, — ^yes, mere malice ! — 
To tell its own tale ? 

[ Laska and servants bow to Lady Sarolta, 

Sar. Laska ! What may lVv\& tae^XL^ 


Las, Madam ! and may it please your ladyship * 
This old man's son, by name Bethlen Bathoiy, 
Stands charged, on weighty evidence, that he, 
On yester-eve, being his lordship's birth-day, 
Did traitorously defame Lord Casimir : 
The lord high steward of the realm, moreover—— 

Sar. Be brief ! We know his titles I 

Las And moreover 

Raved like a traitor at our liege King Emerick. 
And furthermore, said witnesses make oath. 
Led on the assault upon his lordship's servants ; 
Yea, insolently tore, from this, your huntsman. 
His badge of livery of your noble house. 
And trampled it in scorn. 

Sar. {to the servants who offer to speak.) You have ha. 
your spokesman ! 
Where is the young man thus accused ? 

O. Bat. I know not : 

Bnt if no ill betide him on the mountains. 
He will not long be absent I 

Sar. Thou art his father ? 

O. Bat. None ever with more reason prized a son ; 
Yet I hate falsehood more than I love him. 
But more than one, now in my lady's presence, 
Witnessed the afiVay, besides these men of malice. 
And if I swerve from truth 

Gbj. Yes I good old man I 

My lady ! pray believe him I 

Sar. Hush, Glycine ! 

Be silent, [ command you. \tlien to Bathory, 

Speak ! we hear you ! 

O. Bat. My tale is brief During our festive dance, 
Y'our servants, the accusers of my son, 
Offered gross insults, in unmanly sort, 
To our village maidens. He, (could he do less ?) 
Rose in defence of outraged modesty > 
And so persuasive did his cudgel prove, 
(Your hectoring sparks so over brave to women 
Are always cowards) that they soon took flight, 
And now in mere revenge, like baCRed boasters. 


Have framed this tale, out of some hasty words 
Which their own threats provoked. 

Sfir. Old man ! you talk 

Too bluntly ! Did your son owe no respect 
To the livery of our house ? 

O. J3at, Even such respect 

As the sheep's skin should gain for the hot wolf 
That hath begun to worry the poor lambs ! 

Las. Old insolent ruffian ! 

Gil/. Pardon ! pardon, madam ! 

I ifaw the whole alTray. The gpod old man 
Means no offence, sweet lady ! — You, yourw^lf, 
Laska ! know well, that these men were tlie ruffians ! 
Shame on you ! 

Sar. "What I Glycine ? Go, retire ! 

[Exit Glycine. 
Be it then that these men faulted. Yci yourself. 
Or better still beUke the maidens' parents. 
Might have complained to us. Was ever access 
Denied you ? Or free audience ? Or are we 
W^eak and unfit to punish our own servants ? 

O. Bat. So then ! So then I Heaven grant an old man patience I 
And must the gardener leave his seedling plants. 
Leave his young roses to the rooting swine 
While he goes ask their mftster, if perchance 
His leisure serve to scourge them from their ravage ? 

Las. Ho ! Take the rude clown from your lady's presence I 
I will report her further will ! 

Sar. "Wait then, 

Till thou hast learnt it ! Fervent good old man ! 
Forgive me that, to try thee, I put on 
A face of sternness, alien to my meaning ! 

[tJien speaks to tlie servanU. 
Hence ! leave my presence ! and you, Laska ! mark me ! , 

Those rioters are no longer of my household ! 
If we but shake a dew-drop from a rose. 
In vain would we replace it, and as vainly 
Restore the tear of wounded modesty 
To a maiden's eye fumilifirized to license. — 
But theie mea, Laaka — 
wwt. TO T 


La$. (aside.) Yes, now 'tis cc»iiing. 

Sar. Brutal aggressors first, then baffled <^»«*^wi^ 
That they have sought to piece out their revenge 
With a tale of words lured from the lips of anger. 
Stamps them most dangerous : and till I want 
Fit means for wicked ends, we shall not need 
Their services. Discharge them ! You, Bathory ! 
A re henceforth of my household ! I shall place you 
Near my own person. When your son returns, 
Present him to us ! 

O. Bat. Ha ! what strangers here ! 
*What business have they in an old man's eye ? 
Your goodness, lady — and it came so sudden — 
I can not — must not — let you be deceived. 
I have yet another tale, but [tken to Sarolta aside 

not for all ears ! 

Sar. I oft have passed your cottage, and still praised 
Its beauty, and that trim orchard-plot, whose blossoms 
The gusts of April showered aslant its thatch. 
Come ! you shall show it rae ! And, while you bid it 
Farewell, be not ashamed that I should witness 
The oil of gladness glittering on the water 
Of an ebbing grief 

[Bathory shows her i?Uo his cottagf^ 

Las, (alone.) Vexation! balHed ! school'd ! 

Ho 1 Laska ! M-ake ! why ? what can all this mean ? 
She sent away that cockatrice in anger ! 
Oh the false witch ! It is too plain, she loves him. 
And now, the old man near my lady's person, 
She'll see this Bethlen hourly ! 

[Laskajlings himself i?ito tlie seat. Glycine peeps in. 

Gly. Laska ! Laska ! 

Is my lady gone ? 

Zms. Gone. 

Gly. Have you yet seen him ? 

Is he returned ? [Laska starts up. 

Has the seat stung you, Laska ? 

Las. No, serpent I no ; *tis you that sting me ; you ! 
What ? you would cling to him again ! 

* Tbii lloe was borrowed micon^cio^i&lY from the lilxearaioD. 


Gly, Whom ? 

Las Bethlen! Bethlcni 

Yes ; gaze as if your very eyes embraced him ! 
Ha ! you forget the scene of yesterday ! 
Mute ere he came, but then — Out on your screams, 
And your pretended fears ! 

Gly. Your fears, at least, 

Were real, Laska ! or your trembling limbs 
And white cheeks played the hypocrites most vilely ! 

Las. I fear ! whom ? What ? 

Gly. I know, what I should fear. 

Were I in Laska's place. 

Las. What ? 

Gly. My own conscience, 

For having fed my jealousy and envy 
With a plot, made out of other men's revenges, 
Against a brave and innocent young man's life I 
Yet, yet, pray tell me ! 

Las. You will know too soon. 

Gly. Would I could find my lady ! though she chid me^ 
Yet this suspense — \yoin^» 

Las. Stop ! stop ! one question only — 

I am quite calm — 

Gly. Ay, as the old song says. 

Calm as a tiger, valiant as a dove. 
Nay now, I have marred the verse : well ! this one question^- 

Las. Are you not bound to me by your own promise ? 
And is it not as plain — 

Gly, Halt ! that^s two questions. 

Las. Pshaw ! Is it not as plain as impudence 
That you're in love with this young swaggering beggar, 
Bethlen Bathory ? When lie was accused. 
Why pressed you for\v'ard ? Wliy did you defend him ? 

Gly. Q^uestion meet question : that's a woman's privilege. 
Why, Laska, did you urge Lord Casimir 
To make my lady force that promise from me ? 

Las, So then, you say. Lady Sarolta forced you ? 

Gly. Could I look up to her dear countenance, 
And say her nay ? As far back as I wot of 
All her commands were gracious, sweet TequeftU. 


How could it be then, but that her requests 
Must needs have sounded to me as commands ? 
And as for love, had I a score of loves, 
I'd keep them all for my dear, kind, good mistress. 

Las. Not one for Bethlen ? 

Gly. Oh ! that's a different thing. 

To be sure he's bravo, and handsome, and so pious 
lo his good old father. But for loving him — 
Nay, there, indeed you are mistaken, Laska ! 
Poor youth I I rather think I grieve for him ; 
For I sigh so deeply when I think of him ! 
And if I see him, the tears come in my eyes, 
And my heart beats ; and all because I dream'd 
That the war-wolf* had gored him as he hunted 
In the haunted forest ! 

JLas. You dare own all this ? 

Your lady will not warrant promise-breach. 
Mine, pampered Miss ! you shall be ; and I'll make you 
Grieve for him with a vengeance. Odd's, my fingers 
Tingle already I 

[makes threatening signs. 

Gly. {aside.) Ha ! Bethlen coming this way I 

[ Glycine then cries out. 
Oh, save me I save me I Pray don't kill me, Laska ! 
Enter Bethlen in a Hunting Dress. 

Bet. What, beat a woman ! 

Las. {to Glycine.) you cockatrice ! 

Bet. Unmanly dastard, hold ! 

Las. Do you chance to know 

iVho— I— am, Sir ?— (S'death ! how black he looks !) 

Bet. I have started many strange beasts in my time, 
But none less like a man, than this before me. 
That lifts his hand against a timid female. 

Las. Bold youth I she's mine. 

Gly. No, not my master yet. 

But only is to be ; and all, because 
Two years ago my lady asked me, and 

♦ For the best account of the "War-wolf or LvcaotbropuB, see Draytoo f 
Moon-calf, Chalmers' EugU&h Po«t&, vol. iv. ^. la «. 


I promised 'her, not him ; and if she*!! let me, 
rU hate you, my lord's steward. 

Bet. Hush, Glycine I 

Ghj. Yes, I do, Bethlcn ; for he just now brought 
False witnesses to swear away your life : 
Your lite, and old Bathory's too. 

Bet. Bathory's I 

Where is my father ? Answer, or Ha I gone ! 

[L(iska during this time retires from tlie Stage, 

Gbj. Oh, heed not him ! I saw you pressing onward 
And did but feign alarm. Dear gallant youth. 
It is your life they seek I 

Bet. My life ? 

Glij. Alas, 

Lady Sarolta even — 

Bet. She does not know me ! 

Gly, Oh that she did ! she could not then have spoken 
With such stem countenance. But though she spurn me, 
I will kneel, Bethlen — 

Bet. Not for me, Glycine I 

What have I done ? or whom have I offended ? 

Gly. Rash words, 'tis said, and treasonous of the king. 

[Betlden nutters to himsilf, 

Gly. {aside.) So looks the statue, in our hall, o' the god 
The shai't just flown that killed the serpent ! 

Bet. King I 

Gly. Ah, often have I wished you were a king. 
You would protect the helpless everywhere. 
As you did us. And I, too, should not then 
Grieve for you, Bethlen, as I do ; nor have 
The tears come in my eyes ; nor dream bad dreams 
That you were killed in the forest ; and then Laska 
Would have no right to rail at me, nor say 
(Yes, the base man, he says,) that I — I love you. 

Bet. Pretty Glycine ! wert thou not betrothed— 
But in good truth I know not what I speak. 
This luckless morning I have been so haunted 
With my own fancies, starting up like omens, 
That I feel like one, who waking from a dream 
Both aakB and answers wildly. — ^But Batboi^ 1 


Gly. Hist ! 'tis my lady's step ! She must not see yoo ! 

\Sethlen retim 
Efitcr from the Cottage Sarolta and Bathory. 

Sar, Go, seek your son ! I need not add, be speedy — 
You here, Glycine ? [SxU BcUkoty 

Gly, Pardon, pardon, Madam ! 

[f you but saw the old man's son, you would not. 
You could not have him harmed. 

Sar. Be calm, Glycine ! 

Oly, No, I shall break my heart. 

Sar. Ha 1 is it so ? 

strange and hidden power of sympathy, 
That of like fates, though all unknown to each. 
Dost make blind instincts, orphan's heart to orphan's 
Drawing by dim disquiet * 

Gly, Old Bathory— 

Sar. Seeks his brave son. Come, wipe away thy tean. 
Yes, in good truth, Glycine, this same Bethlen 
Seems a most noble and deserving youth. 

Gly. My lady does not mock me I 

Sar. Where is liaska ? 

Has he not told thee ? 

Gly. Nothing. In his fear — 

Anger, I mean — stole off — I am so fluttered — 
Left me abruptly — 

Sar. His shame excuses him I 

He is somewhat hardly tasked and in discharging 
His own tools, cons a lesson for himself 
Bathory and the youth henceforward live 
Safe in my lord's protection. 

Gly. The saints bless you ! 

Shame on my graceless heart I How dared I fear, 
Lady Sarolta could be cruel ? 

Sar. Come, 

Be yourself, girl I 

Gly. 0, 'tis so full here ! 

And now it can not harm him if I tell you, 
That the old man's son — 

Sar. Is not that old man's son ! 

A destiny f not unlike Dune own, \%\i\«. 


For all I know of thee is, that thou art 

A sol(lier*8 orphan : left when rage intestine 

Shook and engulphed the pillars of Illyria. 

This other fragment, thrown back by that same carthquakOi 

This, so mysteriously inscribed by nature, 

Perchance may piece out and interpret thine. 

Command thyself! Be secret ! His true father 

lleur'st thou ? 

Gly. tell— 

Bet. (rushing out.) Yes, tell me, Sha})e from heaven I 
Who is my father ? 

Sar. {gazing with surprise.) Thine ? Thy father ? Rise ' 

Gly. Alas ! He hath alarmed you, my dear lady I 

Sar. His countenance, not his act! 

G/ij. Rise, Bethlen ! Rise ! 

Bet. No ; kneel thou too ! and with thy orphan's tongua 
Plead for me ! I am rooted to the earth. 
And have no power to rise ! Give me a father I 
There is a prayer in those uplifted eyes 
That seeks hicrh Heaven ! But I will overtake it, 
And bring it back, and make it plead for me 
In thine own heart 1 Speak ! Speak ! Restore to me 
A name in the world ! 

Sar. By that blest Heaven I gazed at 

I know not who thou art. And if I knew, 
Dared I — But rise I 

Bet. Blest spirits of my parents, 

Ye hover o'er me now! Ye shine upon me ! 
And like a flower that coils forth from a ruin, 
I feel and seek the light I can not see I 

Sar. Thou seo'st yon dim spot on the mountain's ridge, 
But what it is thou know'st not. Even such 
Is all I know of thee — haply, brave youth, 
Is all Fate makes it safe for thee to know ! 

JJet. Safe ? Safe ? let mo then inherit danger, 
And it shall be my birth-right I 

Sar. (asifiti.) That look again I — 

The wood which first incloses, and then skirts 
The highest track that leads across the mountains— 
Tl)nii knnw'st it, Bethien ? 

440 ZAJ>OLYA. 

Bet. Lady, 'twas my wont 

To roam there in my childhood ofl alone 
And mutter to myself the name of father. 
For still Bathory (why, till now I guessed not) 
Would never hear it from my lips, but sighing 
Ciazed upward. Yet of late an idle terror- 

Oly, Madam, that wood is haunted by the war-wolvei 
Vampires, and monstrous 

Sar. Moon-calves, credulous girl * 

Haply some o'ergrown savage of the forest 
Hath his lair there, and fear hath framed the rtrst. 
Afler that last great battle, (0 young man * 
Thou wak'st anew my life's sole anguish) that 
Which fixed Lord Emerick on his throne, Bathory 
Led by a cry, far inward from the track. 
In the hollow of an oak, as in a nest, 
Did find thee, Bethlen, then a helpless babe. 
The robe that wrapt thee was a widow's mantle. 

Bel. An infant's weakness doth relax my frame. 

say — I fear to ask 

Sar. And I to tell thee. 

Bet. Strike I strike quickly ! See, I do not shrink 

1 am stone, cold stunc. 

Sar. Hid in a brake hard by. 

Scarce by both palms snj)|)orted from the earth, 
A wounded lady lay, wliose life fast waning 
Seemed to survive itself in her llxt eyes, 
That strained towards the babe. At length one arm 
Painfully from her own weight disengaging, 
She pointed first to heaven, then from her bosom 
Drew forth a golden casket. Thus entreated 
Thy foster-father took thee in his arms. 
And kneeling spake : If aught of this world's comfoit 
(Jan reach thy heart, receive a poor man's troth, 
That at my life's risk I will save thy child ! 
Her countenance worked, as one that seemed preparing 
A loud voice, but it died upon her lips 
In a faint whisper, " Fly I Save him ! Hide — hide all !'* 

Bet, And did he leave her ? What, had I a mother ' 
And left her bleeding, dying 1 Bow?r\vx 1 nA^ \\^^. 


With the desertion of a dying mother ? 

ajjony ! 

Gly, Alas ! thou art bewildered, 
And dost forget thou wert a helpless infant 1 

Bet. What else can I remember, but a mother 
Mangled and leil to perish ? 

Sar. Hush, Glycine ! 

It is the ground-swell of a teeming instinct : 
Lot it but lift itself to air and sunshine, 
And it will find a mirror in the waters 
It now makes boil above it ! Check him not ! 

Bet. that I were diHused among the waters 
That pierce into the secret depths of earth, 
And find their way in darkness ! Would that I 
Could spread myself upon the homeless winds ! 
And I would seek her ! for she is not dead ! 
She can not die ! pardon, gracious lady I 
You were about to say, that he returned — 

Sar. Deep Love, the godlike in us, still bolierat 
Its objects as immortal as itself! 

Bet. And found her still — 

tSar. Alas ! he did return, 

He leil no spot unsearched in all the forest, 
But she (I trust me by some friendly hand) 
Had been borne ofl. 

Bet. whither ? 

Glij. Dearest Bethlen 1 

1 would that you could weep like me ! do not 
(iuze so upon the air ! 

k^ar. While he was absent, 

A friendly troop, 'tis certain, scoured the wood. 
Hotly pursued indeed by Emerick. 

Bett ^ Emerick ! 

Oh Hell ! 

Gly Bethlen ! 

Bet. Hist ! I'll curse him in a whisper I 

This gracious lady must hear blessings only. 
She hath not yet the glory round her head. 
Nor those strong eagle wings, which make swifl way 


To that appointed place, which I must seek ; 
Or else she were my mother ! 

Sar. Noble youth I 

From me fear nothing ! Long time have I owed 
Offerings of expiation for misdeeds 
Long past that weigh me down, though innocent ! 
Thy foster-father hid the secret from thee, 
For he perceived thy thoughts as they expanded, 
Proud, restless, and ill-sorting with thy state ! 
Vain was his care ! Thou'st made thyself suspected 
E*en where suspicion reigns, and asks no proof 
But its own fears ! Great Nature hath endowed thee 
With her best gifts ! From me thou shalt receive 
All honorable aidance ! But haste hence ! 
Travel will ripen thee, and enterprise 
Beseems thy years ! Be thou henceibrth my soldier ! 
And whatsoe'er betide thee, still believe 
That in each noble deed, achieved or suflered, 
Thou sol vest best the riddle of thy birth ! 
And may the light that streams from thine own honor 
(xuide thee to that thou seekest ! 

Gltj. Must he leave us ? 

J3et. And for such goodness can I return nothing 
But some hot tears that sting mine eyes? Some sighs 
That if not breathed would swell my heart to stifling ? 
May heaven and thine own virtues, high-born lady, 
Be as a shield of fire, far, far aloof 
To scare all evil from thee I Yet, if fate 
Hath destined thee one doubtful hour of danger, 
From the uttermost region of the earth, methinks. 
Swift as a spirit invoked, I should be with thee I 
And then, perchance, I might have power to unbosom 
These thanks that struggle here. Eyes fai^as thine 
Have gazed on ine with tears of love and anguish, 
Wliich these eyes saw not, or beheld unconscious ; 
And tones of anxious fondness, passionate prayers, 
Have l»een talked to me I But this tongue ne'er soothed 
A mother's ear, lisping a mother's name ! 
0, at how dear a price have I been loved 
And DO love could return I Oae \>ootv vVew, X^iCi^j \ 


Where'er thou bidd*st, I go thy faithful soldicrp 
But first must trace the spot, where she lay bleeding 
Who gave me life. No more shall beast of ravine 
Affront with baser spoil that sacred forest ! 
Or if avengers more than human haunt there, 
Take they what shape they list, savage or heavenly. 
They shall make answer to me, though my heart's blood 
*hould be the spell to bind them. Blood calls for blood ! 

[Exit Bethlen. 

S<ir. Ah ! it was this I feared. To ward oft this 
Did I withhold from him that old Bathory 
Returning hid beneath the selfsame oak. 
Where the babe lay, the mantle, and some jewel 
Bound on his infant arm. 

Gly. Oh, let me fly 

And stop him ! Mangled limbs do there lie scattered 
Till the lured eagle bears them to her nest. 
And voices have been heard ! And there the plant grows 
That being eaten gives the inhuman wizard 
Power to put on the fell hyiena's shape. 

Sar, What idle tongue hath bewitched thee, Glycine f 
1 hoped that thou hadst learnt a nobler faith. 

Gbj. chide me not, dear lady ; question Laska, 
Or the old man. 

Sar. Forgive me, I spake harshly. 

It is indeed a mighty sorcery 
That doth enthral thy young heart, my poor girl. 
And what hath Laska told thee ? 

Gly. Three days past 

A courier from the king did cross that wood ; 
A wilful man, that armed himself on purpose : 
And never hath been heard of from that time ! 

[sound of horns unthotU 

Sar. Hark ! dost thou hear it? 

Gly. 'Tis the sound of horns ! 

Our huntsmen are not out ! 

Sar. Lord Casimir 

Would not come thus ! [horns again, 

Gly. Still louder ! 

Sar. Ha&le ^e ^lenoft *. 


For 1 believe in part thy tale of terror ! 

But, trust me, 'tis the inner man transformed . 

Beasts in the shape of men are worse than war-wolves. 

[SaroUa and Glycine exeant. Trumpets^ 4^. lamdtr 
Enter Emerick, Lord JRuddph, Lciska, and HtmU 
nien and Attendants. 

Mud. A gallant chase, sire. 

Enie, Ay, but this new quarry 

That we last started seems worth all the rest, [then to Z^aska 
And you — excuse me— what's your name ? 

Las. Whatever 

Your majesty may please. 

Erne. Nay, that's too late, man. 

Say, what thy mother and thy godfather 
Were pleased to call thee. 

Las. Laska, my liege sovereign. 

Erne. Well, my liege subject, Laska ! And you arc 
Lord Casimir's steward ? 

Las And your majesty's creature. 

Erne. Two ji^enlle dames made off at our approach. 
Which was your lady ? 

Las My liege lord, the taller. 

The other, please your grace, is her poor handmaid, 
Long since betrothed to me. But the maid's froward — 
Yet would your grace but npeak — 

Erne. Hum, master steward I 

I am honored with this sudden coiifideuoe. 
Lead on. \fo Laska then to Rudolph, 

Lord Rudolph, you'll announce our coming. 
Greet fair Sarolta from me, and entreat her 
To be our gentle hostess. Mark, you add 
How much we grieve, that business of the state 
Hath forced us to delay her lord's return. 

L. Ritd. (aside.) Lewd, ingrate tyrant I Yes, I will announce 

Emc. Now onward all. [Exeinit attendants, 

A fair one by my faith ! 
If her face rival but her gait and stature. 
My good friend Casimir had his reasons too. 
" Her tender health, her vow o^ avtvcv xevwvim^vwx.. 

ZaPOLYA. 446 

Made early in the convent — His word pledged — " 

All fictions, all ! fictions of jealousy. 

Well ! if the mountain move not to the prophet, 

The prophet must to the mountain ! In this Laska 

There's somewhat of the knave mixed up with dolt. 

Through the transparence of the fool, methought, 

I saw (as I could lay my finger on it) 

The crocodile's eye, that peered up from the hottom. 

Tiiis knave may do us service. Hot amhition 

Won me the hushand. Now let vanity 

And the resentment for a forced seclusion 

Decoy the wife ! Let him he deemed the aggressor 

Whoj^ cunning and distrust hegan the game ! [E'CU* 

ACT n. 

Scene I. — A savage icood. — At one side a cavern, overhung 
ivith ivy. Zapolya and llaab Kiujyrili discovered : both, Imi 
esjwcially the latter, in rude and savage garments. 

a. Kiu. Heard you then aught while I was slumbering ? 

Zap. Nothing. 

Only your face became convulsed. We miserable ! 
Is heaven's last mercy fled ? Is sleep grown treacherous f 

R. Kin. for a sleep, for sleep itself to rest in ! 
I dream'd I had met with food beneath a tree, 
And I was seeking you, when all at once 
^ly feet became entangled in a net, 
Still more entangled as in rage I tore it. 
At length I freed myself, had sight of you, 
But as I hastened eagerly, again 
I found my frame encumbered : a huge serpent 
Twined round my chest, but tightest round my throat 

Z,ap. Alas ! 'twas lack of food : for hunger chokes ! 

li. Kin. And now I saw you by a shrivelled child 
K-^'trangely pursued. You did not fly, yet neither 
1 ouclied you the ground, methought, but close above it 
\j\i\ seem to ohoot yourself along the air, 
And as you passed me, turned your face and ahriekftd.. 

Zap. I did in truth send forth a feeb\e ftVineV, 


Scarce knowing why. Perhaps the mock d senae craved 
To hear the scream, which you hut Beemdd to utter. 
For your whole face looked like a mask of torture I 
Yet a child's image doth indeed pursue me 
Shrivelled with toil and penury ! 

R. Kiu. Nay 1 what ails jon ? 

Zap, A wondrous faintness there comes stealing o'er me 
Js it Death's lengthening shadow, who comes onward, 
Life'fr setting sun hehind him ? 

R. Kiu. Cheerly ! The dusk 

Will quickly shroud us. Ere the moon be up, 
Trust me Til bring thee food ! 

Zap, Hunger's tooth has 

Gnawn itself blunt. 0, I could queen it well 
O'er my own sorrows as my rightful subjects. 
But wherefore, revered Kiuprili I wherefore 
Did my importunate prayers, my hopes and fancies. 
Force thee from thy secure though sad retreat ? 
Would that my tongue had then cloven to my mouth ! 
But heaven is just I With tears I conquered thee. 
And not a tear is left me to repent with I 
Hadst thou not done already — hadst thou not 
Sufiered — oh, more than e'er man feigned of friendship ? 

R. Kiu. Yet be thou comforted ! What ! hadst thou faith 
When I turned back incredulous ? 'Twas thy light 
That kindled mine. And shall it now go out, 
And leave thy soul in darkness ? Yet look up. 
And think thou seest thy sainted lord commissioned 
And on his way to aid us ? Whence those late dreams. 
Which after such long interval of hopeless 
And silent resignation all at once 
Night after night commanded thy return 
Hither ? and still presented in clear vision 
This wood as in a scene I this very cavern ? 
Thou darest not doubt that Heaven's especial hand 
Worked in those signs. The hour of thy deliverance 
fs on the stroke : — for misery can not add 
G-rief to thy griefs, or patience to thy sufferance ! 

7^p. Can not I 0, what if thou wert taken from me ? 
N&y, thou said'st well *. for iViat biwA. <i^«L\.Vv ^n^x^ ^w«i. 


Life's grief is at ita height indeed ; the hard 
Necessity of this inhuman state 
Hath made our deeds inhuman as our vestments. 
Housed in this wild wood, with wild usages, 
Dauber our guest, and famine at our portal — 
AVoll-like to prowl in the shepherd's fold by night ! 
At once for food and safety to ailHghten 
The traveller from his road — 

[ Glycine is /leard singing unthout. 
R. Kin. Hark 1 heard you not 

A distant chant ? 

SoNQ — by Glycine. 
A sunny shafl did I behold. 

From sky to earth it slanted : 
And poised therein a bird so bold — 

Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted ! 
He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled 

Within that shafl of sunny mist ; 
His eyes of fire, his beak of gold, 

All else of amethyst ! 

And thus he sang : " Adieu ! adieu ! 
Love's dreams prove seldom true. 
The blossoms, they make no delay : 
. The sparkling dew-drops will not stay. 
Sweet month of May, 
We must away ; 
Far, far away I 
To-day! to-day I" 

Zap. Sure 'tis some bleit spirit ! 

For since thou slew'st the usurper's emissary 
That plunged upon us, a more than mortal fear 
Is as a wall, that wards off the beleaguerer 
And starves the poor besieged. L^^^ again, 

R. Kiu. It is a maiden's voice ! quick to the cave ! 

Zap, Hark ! her voice falters ! [Exit Zapolya. 

R. Kiu. She must not enter 

The cavern, else I will remain unseen! 

[ Kiuprili retires to one side of the stage. Glycine enters 


Gly. A savage place ! saints shield me ! Bethlen I Bethlea 
Not here ? — There's no one here ! Til sing again [sings again 
If I do not hear my own voice, I shall iancy 
Voices in all chance sounds ! [starts. 

*Twas some dry branch 
Dropt of itself ! Oh, he went forth so rashly, 
Took no food with him — only his arms and boar-spear ! 
What if I leave these cakes, this cruse of wine, 
Here by this cave, and seek him with the rest ? 

R. Kin. (izfiseen.) Leave them and flee I 

Gly. {shrieks, tJten recovering.) Where are you ? 

R. Kiu. (slill unseen.) Leave them ! 

Gly. Tis Glycine I 

Speak to me, Bethlen ! speak in your own voice ! 
All silent ! — If this were the war- wolf 's den ! 
'Twas not his voice ! — 

[ Glycine leaves the provisions and exit. KiuprUi comes 
forward, scfzes them and carries them into the cavern, 
Glyci?ic returns. 

Gly. Shame ! nothing hurt me ! 

If some fierce beast have gored hirn, he must nee<ls 
Speak with a strange voice. Wounds cause thirst and hoarseness ' 
Speak, Bethlen ! or but moan. St — St — No— Bethlen ! 
If I turn back and he should be found dead here, 

[sli^ creeps 7iearer and nearer to the co/vern 
I should go mad I — Again I — 'Twas my own heart I 
Hush, coward heart I better beat loud with fear. 
Than break with shame and anguish ! 

[As she approaches to enter the cavern, KiuprUi .^ifops her 
Glycine shrieks. 

Saints protect me I 

R. Kiu. Swear then by all thy hopes, by all thy fears — 

Gly. Save me ! 

R. Kiu Sw3ar secrecy and silence ! 

Gly. I swear ! 

R. Kiu. Tell what thou art, and what thou seekest ? 

G/y. Only 

A harmless orphan youth, to bring him food — 

R. Kiu. Wherefore in this wood ? 

Gly. Alas *. it was Ui* y J^^fV^**^ — 


R. Kin. With what intention came he ? Wonld*8t thou save 
Hide nothing ! 

Gly. Save him ! forgive his rashness ! 
He is good, and did not know that thou wert human ! 

R. Kiu. Human? 

With what design ? 

Ghj. To kill thee, or 

If thou wert a spirit, to compel thee 
](y prayers, and with the shedding of his blood, 
To make disclosure of his parentage. 
But most of all — 

Zap. {rushing out from tJie cavern.) Heaven's blessing on tboe • 
Speak ! 

Gly. Whether his mother live, or perished here ! 

Zap. Angel of mercy, I was perishing, 
And thou did'st bring me food : and now thou bring'st 
The sweet, sweet food of hope and consolation 
To a mother^s famished heart ! His name, sweet maiden I 

Gly. E'en till this morning we were wont to name him 
Bethlen Bathory ! 

Zap. Even till this morning ? 

This morning? when my weak faith failed me wholly! 
Pardon, thou that portion'st out our sufferance. 
And fiU'st again the widow's empty cruse ! 
S.iy on ! 

Gly. The false ones charged the valiant youth 
With treasonous words of Emerick — 

Zap, Ha ! my son ! 

Gly. And of Lord Casimir — 

R. Kiu. {aside.) agony ! my son ! 

Gly. But my dear lady-* 

Zap. and R. Kiu Who ? 

Gly. Lady Sarolta 

Fiitwncd and discharged these bad men. 

R. Kiu. {to himself.) Righteous heaven 
Sent me a daughter once, and I repined 
That it was not a son. A son was given me. 
My daughter died, and I scarce shed a tear : 
And lol that son became my curse and iuEaia]. 


2^p. {embraces Glycine.) Sweet innooeot ! and yoa rmwkc ken 

to seek him, 
And bring him food. Alas ! thou fear'st ? 

Gil/. Not nmch ! 

My own dear lady, when I Mas a child, 
Embraced me oil, but her heart never beat so. 
For I too am an orphan, motherless ! 

R. Kin. (to Zapdya.) yet beware, lest hope's brief flash but 
The afler-gloom, and make the darkness stormy ! 
In that last conflict, following our escape, 
The usurper's cruelty had clogged our flight 
With many a babe and many a childing mother. 
This maid herself is one of numberless 

Planks from the same vast wreck. [tlicn to Glycine again 

Well ! Casimir^s wife — 

Gly. She is alwa^'s gracious, and so praised the old man 
That his heart o'erilowed, and made discovery 
That in this wood — 

Zap. speak I 

Gly. A wounded lady — 

{Zapolya faints — tltey both syp]x>rt her 

Gly. Is this his mother ? 

R. Kill. She would fain believe it. 

Weak though the proofs be. Hope draws towards itself 
The flame with which it kindles. [horn heard tci*hout 

To the cavern ! 
ftuick ! quick ! 

Gly. Perchance some huntsmen of the king's. 

R. Kin. Emerick ? 

Gly. He came this morning — 

[ They retire to the cavern, bearing Zapolya. Then enter 
Bcthlen^ armed tcifh a boar-sjyrar. 

Bet. I had a glimpse 

Of some fierce shape ; and but that Fancy of\en 
Is Nature's intermeddler, and cries halves 
With the outward sight, I should believe I saw it 
Bear ofl' some human prey. my preserver I 
Bathorv ! Father I Yes, thou deserv'st that name I 


Thou did st not mock ine\ T\\e^ at^Wess^A K\yv^vev^\ 


The secret cipher of my destiny [ Looking at his signet. 

Stands here inscribed : it is the seal of fate ! 

I la I — Had ever monster fitting lair, His yonder 1 

Thou yawning den, I well remember thee ! 

Mine eyes deceived mo not. Heaven leads mo on ! 

Now for a blast, loud as a king's defiance, 

To rouse the monster couchant o'er his ravine 1 

[Blows the horn — then a pause. 
Another blast ! and with another swell 
To you, ye charmed watchers of this wood ! 
If haply I have come, the rightful heir 
Of vengeance : if in me survive the spirits 
Of those, whose guiltless blood flowed streaming here ! 

[Blows again louder. 
Still silent ? Is the monster gorged ? Heaven shield me ! 
Thou, faithful spear ! bo both my torch and guide. 

[As Betlden is about to etUer, Kiuprili speaks from th-e 
cavern unseen. 

11. Kin. AVithdraw thy foot ! Retract thine idle sp^^r 
And wait obedient ! 

Bet. Ha ! What art thou ? speak ! 

R. Kiu. {still ufiseen.) Avengers I 

Bet. By a dying mother's pangs 

E'en such am I. Receive me ! 

It. Kiu. (still Ufiseen.) Wait ! Beware ! 
At thy first step, thou treadest upon the light. 
Thenceforth must darkling flow, and sink in darkness ! 

Bet. Ha ! see my boar-spear trembles like a reed I — 
Oh, fool I mine eyes are duped by my own shuddering.— 
Those piled thoughts, built up in solitude. 
Year following year that pressed upon my heart 
As on the altar of some unknown (to<1, 
Then, as if touched by flro from heaven dc»>cndinj^, 
Blazed up within mo at a father's name — 
Do they desert mo now I — at my last trial ? 
Voice of command ! and thou, hidden Light ! 
I have obeyed I Declare ye by what name 
1 dare invoke you I Tell what sacrifice 
Will make you gracious. 

/?. A7u. (sfi/l unseen.) Patience I TiwlYi\ 0\je^\«xv^«\ 


Be thy whole soul transparent ! so the Light. 
Thou seekest, may enshrine itself within thee I 
Thy name ? 

Bet. Ask rather the poor roaming savage. 
Whose infancy no holy rite had blest. 
To him, perchance rude spoil or ghastly trophy. 
In chase or battle won, have given a name. 

have none — ^but like a dog have answered 
To the chance sound which he that fed me, called me. 

R. Kiu. {still unseen.) Thy birth-place ? 

Bet. Dehiding spirits ! Do ye mock me ? 
duestion the Night ! Bid Darkness tell its birth-pla«« I 
Yet hear I Within yon old oak's hollow trunk. 
Where the bats cling, have I surveyed my cradle ! 
The mother-falcon hath her nest above it. 

And in it the wolf litters I 1 invoke you, 

Tell me, ve secret ones ! if ve beheld me 

As I slood there, like one who liaving delved 

For hidden gold hath louiid a talisman, 

tell ! what rijrhts, what offices of dutv 

Tiiis signet doth command ? AVhat rebel spints 

Owe homage to its Lord ? 

R. Kiu. (still unstcn.) More, guiltier, mightier. 
Than thou mav'st summon I Wait the destined hour I 

Bet. yet again, and with more clamorous prayer, 
T im[>ortuue ye I Mock me no more with shadow's ! 
This sable mantle — tell, dread voice I did this 
Enwrap one fatherless I 

Zap. (unseen.) One fatherless ! 

Bet. A sweeter voice I — A voice of love and pity. 
Was it the sol'tened echo of mine own ? 
Sad echo I but the hope, it kili'd. was sickly. 
And ere it died it had been mouruetl as dead ! 
One other hope yet lives within my soul : 
Quick let me ask! — while yet this stiding fear 
This stop oi the heart, leaves utterance ! — Are — are these 
The sole remains of her that gave me liiV ? 
Have I a mother ? 

[ Zapolifa rushes out to embrace hiim. 


Zap. My son ! my son ! 

A wretched — Oh no, no \^ blest — a happy mother ! 

[ Tliey embrace, ZtUprUi aful Glycme come forward, and 
tlie curtain drops. 


Scene I. — A stately room in Lord Casimir's castle. 

Enter Emerick and Laska. 

Erne. I do perceive thou hast a tender conscience, 
Laska, in all things that concern thine own 
Interest or safety. 

Las. In this sovereign presence 

I can fear nothing, but your dread displeasure. 

Erne. Perchance, thou think'st it strange, that I of all men 
Should covet thus the love of fair Sarolta, 
Dishonoring Casimir ? 

Las. Far be it from me ! 

Your Majesty's love and choice bring honor with them. 

Erne. Perchance, thou hast heard, that Casimir is my friend, 
Fought lor me, yea, for my sake, set at naught 
A parent's blessing ; braved a father's curse ? 

Lan. {aside.) Would I but knew now, what his Majesty meant 
Oh yes, Sire I 'tis our common talk, how Lord 
Kiuprili, my Lord's father — 

Emc. 'Tis your talk. 

Is it, good statesman Laska? 

L'is. No, not mine. 

Not mine, an please your Majesty ! There are 
Some insolent malcontents indeed that talk thus^- 
Nay worse, mere treason. As Bathory's son, 
The fool that ran into the monster's jaws. 

Erne. Well, 'tis a loyal monster if he rids us 
Of traitors ! But art sure the youth's devoured ? 

Las. Not a limb Icf^, an please your Majesty I 
And that unhappy girl — 

Ewe. Thou folio wed'st her 

Into the wood ? \ Xiaska bo\c% a^iwnX. 


Henceforth, then, I'll helieTe 
That jealousy can make a hare a lion. 

Las. Scarce had I got the first glimpfie of her Teil, 
When, with a horrid roar that made the leaves 
Of the wood shake — 

Enie, Made thee shake like a leaf, 

Las. The war-wolf leap'd ; at the first plunge he eeiz'd her. 
Forward I rush'd I 

Em4!. Most marvellous! 

Las. HurFd my javelin ; 

Which from his dragon-scales recoiling — 

Erne. Enough ! 

And take, friend, this advice. When next thou tong^est it. 
Hold constant to thy exploit with this monster, 
And leave untouched your common talk aforesaid, 
What your Lord did, or should have done. 

Lai My talk ? 

The saints forbid ! I always said, for my part, 
*' AVas not the king Lord Casimir's dearest friend ? 
Was not that friend a king? Whate'er he did 
*Twas all from pure love to his Majesty." 

Erne. And this then was thy talk ? While knave and coward 
Both strong within thee, wrestle for the uppermost 
In slips the fool and takes the place of both. 
Babbler ! Lord Casimir did, as thou and all men. 
He loved himself, loved honors, wealth, dominion, 
All these were set upon a father's head : 
Good truth ! a most unlucky accident I 
For he but wished to hit the prize ; not graze 
The head that bore it : so with steady eye 
Off flew the parricidal arrow. — Even 
As Casimir loved Emerick, Emcrick 
Loves Casimir, intends him no dishonor. 
He winked not then, for love of me forsooth I 
For love of me now let him wink ! Or if 
The dame prove half as wise as she is fair, 
He may still pass his hand, and find all smooth. 

[passing his liand across his brow. 

Las. Your Majesty^s reasoning has convinced me. 

Erne. Thee : 


Tis well ! and more than meant. For by my faith 
1 had half forgotten thee. — Thou hast the key ? [Laska bows 
And in your lady's chamber there's full space ? 

La^. Between the wall and arras to conceal you. 

JEme. Here I This purse is but an earnest of thy fortune, 
If thou prov'st faithful. But if thou betrayest mo, 
Hark you ! — the wolf, that shall drag thee to his den 
Shall bo no fiction. 

[JSxit Emcrick, Laska tnanet vnth a key in one handj 
and a jmrse in tJie otfier. 

Las, Well then ! Here I stand, 

Like Hercules, on either side a goddess. 
Call this (looking at tlu purse.) 

Preferment ; this (lidding up tfie key.) Fidelity I 
And first my golden goddess : what bids she ? 
Only : — '* This way, your Majesty ! hush I The household 
Arc all safe lodged." — Then, put Fidelity 
Within her proper wards, just turn her round — 
So — the door opens — and ibr all the rest, 
Tis the king's deed, not Laska's. Do but this 
And — " Fm the mere earnest of your future fortunes.** 
But what says the other ? — ^Whisper on ! I hear you I 

{putting tlie key to his ear. 
All very true I — but, good Fidelity I 
If I refuse King Emerick, will you promise, 
And swear now, to unlock the dungeon-door. 
And save me from the hangman ? Ay I you're silent ! 
What, not a word in answer ? A clear nonsuit ! 
Now for one look to see that all are lodged 
At the due distance — then — yonder lies the road 
For Laska and his royal friend, King Emerick ! 

[Exit Laska. Then enter Batliory and BetUen 

Bet. Ho looked as if he were some God disguised 
In an old warrior*s venerable shape 
To guard and guide my mother. Is there not 
Chapel or oratory in this mansion ? 

O. Bat. Even so. 

Bet. From that place then am I to take 

A helm and breast-plate, both inlaid with gold. 
And the good sword that once was Raab KVu^^nW %. 

1 0„U,. ,.,„«' 
^ iTiou canst nof J. 

'>J»p«lhize mil, ,1 " 

TL "Hn III,. ,,f, 

-Co.. (-< 

'"wnfeu.u. '""-f 

Las. ^*«- 



I myself braved the monster, and would fain 

Have saved tho false one from the fate she tempted. 

O. Bat. You, Laska ? 

Bet, {to Bathory.) Mark ! Heaven grant it may be ■o! 
Glycine ? 

Las. She I I traced her by the voice. 
You'll scarce believe me, when I say 1 heard 
The close of a song : the poor wretch had been singing : 
As if she wished to compliment the war-wolf 
At once with music and a meal ! 

Bet. {to Bathai-y.) Mark that ! 

Las. At the next moment I beheld her running, 
Wringing her hands with, ** Bethlen I poor Bethlen !" 
I almost fear, the sudden noise I made, 
Rushing impetuous through the brake, alarmed her. 
She stopp'd, then mad with fear, turn'd round and ran 
Into the monster's gripe. One piteous scream 
I beard. There was no second — I — 

Bet. Stop there I 

We'll spare your modesty ! Who dares not honor 
Laska's bravo tongue, and high heroic fancy ? 

Las, You too, Sir Knight, have come back safe and sound I 
You played the hero at a cautious distance ! 
Or was it that you sent the poor girl forward 
To stay the monster's stomach ? Dainties quickly 
Pall on the taste and cloy the appetite ! 

O. Bat. Laska, beware ! Forget not what thou art I 
Shouldst thou but dream thou'rt valiant, cross thyself ! 
And ache all over at the dangerous fancy. 

Las. What then ! you swell upon my lady's favor. 
High Lords and perilous of one day's growth ! 
But other judges now sit on the bench ! 
And haply, Laska hath found audience there. 
Where to defend the treason of a son 
Might end in lifting up both son and father 
Still higher ; to a height from which indeed 
You both may drop, but, spite of fate and fortune, • 
Will bo secured from falling to the ground. 
'Tis possible too, young man 1 that royal Emerick, 

VOL. vu. U 


At Laska's rightful suit, may make inquiry 

By whom seduced, the maid so strangely miaung'-^ 

Bet. Soft ! my good Laska ! might it not suffice. 
If to yourself, being Lord Casimir's steward, 
I should make record of Glycine's fate ? 

Ixis. Tis well I it shall content me ! though your fear 
Has all the credit of these lowered tones. 
First we demand the manner of her death ? 

Bet. Nay ! that's superfluous! Have yon not just told m, 
That you yourself, led by impetuous valor, 
Witnessed the whole ? My tale's of later date. 
After the fate, from which your valor strove 
In vain to rescue the rash maid, I saw her ! 

Las. Glycine? 

Bet. Nay ! Dare I accuse wise Laska, 

Whose words find access to a monarch's ear. 
Of a base, braggart lie ? It must have been 
Her spirit that appeared to me. But haply 
1 come too late ? It has itself delivered 
Its own coiiiiiiisfiion to you ? 

O. Bat. " Tis most likely ! 

And the ghost doubtless vanished when we entered 
And found brave Laska staring wide — at nothing ! 

Las. Tis well ! you've ready wits ! I shall report th3m» 
With all due honor to liis majesty ! 
Trea:.ure them up, 1 pray I A certain person, 
Whom the king flatters with his confidence, 
Tells you, his royal friend asks startling questions ! 
Tis but a hint ! And now what says the ghost ? 

Bet. Listen ! for thus it spake : *' Say thou to Lask&, 
Glycine, knowing all thy thoughts engrossed 
In thy new ollice of kings fool and knave, 
Foreseeing, thoult forget with thine own hand 
To make dne penance for the wrongs thou'st caused her, 
For thv youi's safety, doth consent to take it 
P'rom Bethlen's cntlgel' — thus. \beats him off. 

Of!'! scoundrel I of!'! 

[Laska runs au?ay» 

O. Bat Che sudden swelling of this shallow dastard 


Tells of a recent storm : the first disruption 

Of the hlack cloud that hangs and threatens o'er us. 

Bet. E'en this reproves ray loitering. Say where lies 
The oratory ? 

O. Bat. Ascend yon flight of stairs I 
Midway the corridor a silver lamp 
Hangs o'er the entrance of Sarolta's chamber, 
And facing it, the low arched oratory ! 
Me thou'lt find watching at the outward gate : 
For a petard might burst the bars unheard 
By the drenched porter, and Sarolta hourly 
Expects Lord Casimir, spite of Emerick's message! 

Bet. There I will meet you ! And till then good night ! 
Dear good old man, good night ! 

O. Bat. yet one moment I 

What I repelled, when it did see seem my own, 
I cling to, now 'tis parting — call me father ! 
It can not now mislead thee. my son. 
Ere yet our tongues have learnt another name, 
Bethlen ! — say — Father to me ! 

Bet. Now, and forever 

My father ! other sire than thou, on earth 
I never had, a dearer could not have ! 
From the base earth you raised me to your arms. 
And I would leap from off' a throne, and kneeling, 
Ask heaven's blessing from thy lips. My father! 

O. Bat. Go! Go! [Exit Bethlen. 

May every star now shining over us, 

]]e as an angel's eye, to watch and guard him ! 

[Exit Bathory, 

Scene changes to a splendid Bed-cJiatJiber, hung with tapestry 

Sarolta and an Attendant. 

Aft. We all did love her, madam ! 

Sar. She deserved it ! 

Luckless Glycine I rash, unhappy girl ! 
*Twas the first time she e'er deceived me. 

Aft. She was in love, and had she not died thus, 
With grief for Bethlen's loss, and fear of Laska, 
She would have pined herself to death at V\otii«. 

S^/r. Has tho youth*B father come back from \v\t^ wi;vT«\v^. 


Att. He never will, I fear me, O dear lady 1 
That Laska did so triumph o'er the old man — 
It was quite cruel — ** You'll he sure," said he, 
" To meet with part at least of your son Bethlen, 
Or the war- wolf must have a quick digestion ! 
Go ! search the wood hy all means ! Go ! I pray you !*' 

Sar. Inhuman wretch ! 

Au, And old Bathoiy answered 

With a sad smile, " It is a witch's prayer, 
And may Heaven read it backwards." Though she was rash, 
'Twas a small fault for such a punishment ! 

Sar. Nay, 'twas my grief, and not my anger spoke. 
Small fault indeed ! but leave me, my good girl ! 
I feel a weight that only prayer can lighten. 

[Exit Attendamt. 
O they were innocent and yet have perished 
In their May of life ; and Vice grows old in triumph. 
Is it Mercv's hand, that for the bad man holds 

Life's closing pate ? 

Still passing thence petitionarj' Hours 

To woo the olxlurate spirit to repentance ? 

Or would this chillness tell me, that there is 

Guilt too enormous to be duly punished, 

Save by increase of guilt '? The Powers of Evil 

Are jealous claimants. Guilt too hath its ordeal. 

And Hell its own probation ! — Merciful Heaven, 

Rather than this, jiour down upon thy suppliant 

Disease, and agony, and comfortless want ! 

send us forth to wander on unshelter'd I 

Make our food bitter with despised tears ! 

Let viperous scorn hiss at us as we pass ! 

Yea, let us sink down at our enemy's gate. 

And beg forgiveness and a morsel of bread 1 

With all the heaviest worldly visitations, 

Let the dire father's curse that hovers o er us 

Work out its dread fulfilment, and the spirit 

Of wronged Kiuprili be appeased. But only, 

Only, merciful in vengeance I lot not 

That plague turn inward on my Casimir s soul ! 

Scare thence the fiend XiuVnUou, a.\\^ Tc%\oT«i \v\ui 


To his own heart ! save him ! Save my husband ! 

[During the latter part of this speech Emerick comes fur^ 
wardffom his hiding-place. Sarolta seeing him vnth* 
out recognizing him. 
lu such a shape a father's curse shouhl como. 

Erne, {advancing.) Fear not ! 

S(ir. AVho art thou ? Robber ? Traitor ? 

Enie. Friend ! 

Who in good hour hath startled these dark fancies, 
Rapacious traitors, that would faiu depose 
Joy, love and beauty, from their natural thrones : 
Those lips, those angel eyes, that regal forehead. 

Sar. Streugthen me, Heaven ! I must not seem afraid ! \asuie 
The king to-night then deigns to play the masker. 
What seeks your majesty ? 

Erne. Sarolta*s love ; 

And Emerick's power lies prostrate at her feet. 

Sar. Heaven guard the sovereign's power from such debai» 
ment ! 
Far rather. Sire, let it descend in vengeance 
On the base villain, on the faithless slave 
Who dared unbar the doors of these retirements ! 
For whom ? Has Casimir deserved this insult ? 
my misgiving heart ! If — if — from Heaven, 
Yet not from you, Lord Emerick ! 

Erne. Chiefly from me. 

Has he not like an ingrate robbed my court 
Of Beauty's star, and kept my heart in darkness ? 
First then on him I will administer justice — 
If not in mercy, yet in love and rapture. \seizes her. 

Sar, Help! Treason! Help! 

Erne. Call louder ! Scream again ! 

Here's none can hear you ! 

Sar. Hear me, hear me, Heaven ! 

Erne. Nay, why this rage ? Who best deserves you ? Casimu, 
Emerick's bought implement, the jealous slave 
That mews you up with bolts and bars ? or Emerick 
Who proffers you a throne ? Nay, mine you shall be. 
Hence with this fond resistance ! Yield ; then IWe 
ThJB month a widow, and the noU a queeul 


Sar. Yet, yet for one brief momeEt \stntggfimg 

Uohand me, 1 conjure you. 

[ She throws him off, and rusfies towards a toilet, JSmoick 
follows, and as she takes a dagger^ he grasps il in her 
Erne. Ha ! Ha ! a dagger ; 

A seoinly ornament for a lady's casket ! 
*Tis held, devotion is akin to love. 
But yours is tragic I Love in war ! It charms me. 
And makes your beauty worth a king's embraces ! 

{During this Speech Bethlen enters armed.) 
Bet. Rutiian, forbear ! Tuni, turn and front my 8 won! ! 
Erne, Pish I who is this I 

Sar. sleepless eye of Heaven ! 

A blest, a blessed spirit ! AMience camest thou ? 
May I still call thee Bethlen ? 

Bet. Ever, lad v. 


Your faithful soldier ! 

Erne. \\\<o\Q\\i slave ! Depart I 

Know'st thou not me ? 

Bet. I know thou art a villain 

And coward ! That thy devilish purpose marks thee! 
What else, this ladv uuisl instruct niv sword I 

S(Jt'. Monster, retire I touch hiin not, ihou blest oue ' 
This is the hour, that fiends and damned spirits 
Do walk the earth, and take what form thev list ! 
Yon devil hath assumed a kinjjs! 

B*:f. Usurped it ! 

Erne. The king will play the devil with thee indeed I 
But that I mean to hear thee howl on the rack. 
I would debase this sworJ. and lay ihee prostrate. 
At this thy paramour's feet ; then Jrair her forth 
S>tained with adulterous hUxnl, and 

— mark you. traitress! 
Strumpeted first, then turue^l adrift to lieir^arY ! 
Thou prayedsi lori io«.v 

S<.ir. Tiiou art Si.> fiendish wicked. 

That in thy blasphemies I scarce hear thy threats ! 

B*:t. Lady, be caim I fear not this kimr tf the buskin | 
A hag J Oh laughtei *. A k\\\^ iV\v3ix»?\'- 


That from some vagrant actor's tiriag-room, 
Hath stolen at once his speech and crown ! 

Erne. Ah ! treason I 

Thou hast been lessoned and tricked up for this I 
As surely as the wax on thy death-warrant 
Shall take the impression of this royal signet, 
So plain thy face hath ta*en the mask of rebel ! 

[BetfUen seizes Emenck's liand atid eagerly observes the 

Bet. It must be so ! Tis e'en tho counterpart J 
But with a foul usurping cipher on it ! 
The light hath flashed from Heaven, and I must fullow it ! 

curst usurper ! thou brother-murderer ! 
That mad'st a star-bright queen a fugitive widow ! 
Who fill's t the land with curses, being thyself 
All curses iu one tyrant I see and tremble ! 

This is Kiuprili's sword that now hangs o'er thee 1 
Kiuprili's blasting curse, that from its point 
Shoots lightnings at thee. Hark ! in Andreas' name. 
Heir of his vengeance, hell-hound ! I defy thee. 

[ They fight, and just as Emerick is disarmed, in rush 
Casimir, Old BaUwry, and attendants. Casimir 
runs in between the conibatants, and jMrts them ; in 
tlie struggle Bethlcn's sword is thrown down. 
Cas. The king disarmed too by a stranger ! Speak ! 
What may this mean ? 

Erne, Deceived, dishonored lord ' 

Ask thou yon fair adultress ! She will tell thee 
A tale, which would'st thou be both dupe and traitor 
Thou wilt believe against thy friend and sovereign ! 
Thou art present now, and a friend's duty ceases : 
Tc thine own justice leave I thine own wrongs. 
Of half thy vengeance, I perforce must rob thee, 
For that the sovereign claims. To thy allegiance 

1 now commit this traitor and assassin. 

[tlte?i to the Attendants. 

Hence with him to the dungeon ! and to-morrow, 

Kre the sun rises, — Hark ! your heads or his 1 

Bet. Can Hell work miracles to mock Heaven's justice 1 
Erne. Who Bpeaka in him dies ! The UaVXoi X\va\.\kA&\£L«QAtf2^ 


His king, must not poUute the breathing air. 
Even with a word ! 

Cos. (to Bathory.) Hence with hiin to the dungeon ! 

{Exit Bethlen, hurried offhy Bathory and AitemUmti 

Erne. We hunt to-morrow in your upland forest : 
Thou {tD Casimir) wilt attend us ; and wilt then explain 
This sudden and most fortunate arrival. 

[Exit Emerick; Manent Casimir and Sarclta, 

Sar. My lord ! my husband ! look whose sword lies yonder ! 
It is -Kiuprili's, Casimir ; 'tis thy father's ! 
And wielded by a stripling's arm, it ba£9ed, 
Yea, fell like Heaven's own lightnings on that Tarquin. 

Cos. Hush ! hush ! 
I had detected ere I lefl the city 
The tyrant's curst intent. Lewd, damned ingrate 1 
For him did I bring down a father's curse ! 
Swift, swift must be our means ! To-morrow's sun 
Sets on his fate or mine ! blest Sarolta ! 
No other prayer, late penitent, dare I offer. 
But that thy spotless virtues may prevail 
O'er Casimir's crimes, and dread Kiuprili's curse ! [Exeunt 

Scene I. — A glade in a wood. 

Enter Casimir looking anxiously arouna. 

Cos. This needs must be the spot ! 0, here he comes ! 

Enter Lord Rudolph. 

Well met, Lord Rudolph ! 

Your whisper was not lost upon my ear, 
And I dare trust 

L. Riid. Enoujrh ! the time is precious ! 

You left Temeswar late on yester-eve ? 
And sojourned there some hours ? 

Cas. I did so ! 

L. Rud. Heard you 

Aupht of a hunt preparing ? 

Cas. Yes ; and met 

The assembled huntsmen \ 


L. Rud. Was there no word given ? 

Cos. The word for ine was this : — The royal Leopard 
Chases thy milk-white dedicated Hind. 

L. Rud, Your answer ? 

Cas. As the word proves false or truo 

Will Casimir cross the hunt, or join the huntsmen I 

L. Rud. The event redeemed their pledge ? 

Cas. It did, and therefore 

Have I sent back both pledge and invitation. 
The spotless Hind hath fled to them for shelter, 
And bears with her my seal of fellowship ! 

[They take hands, 

L. Rud. But Emerick ! how when you reported to him 
Sarolta's disappearance, and the flight 
Of Bethlen with his guards ? 

Ciis. 0, ho received it 

As evidence of their mutual guilt. In fine. 
With cozening warmth condoled with, and dismissed me 

L. Rud. I entered as the door was closing on you : 
His eye was fixed, yet seemed to follow you, — 
With such a look of hate, and scorn and triumph, 
As if he had you in the toils already. 
And were then choosing where to stab you first. 
But hush ! draw back ! 

Cas, This nook is at the furthest 

From any beaten track. 

L. Rud. There ! mark them ! 

[Points to where Laska and Pestalutz cross the stage 

Cas. Laska ! 

L. Rud. One of the two I recognized this morning , 
Flis name is Pestalutz : a trusty rufllian. 
Whose face is prologue still to some dark murder. 
Beware no stratagem, no trick of message, 
Dispart you from your servants. 

Cas. (aside) I deserve it. 

The comrade of that ruflian is my servant : 
The one I trusted most and most preferred. 
But we must part. What makes the king so late ? 
It was his wont to be an early stirrer. 

L. Rud. Au4 \\\ft lutLva -^kJ^cpj 


To enthral the sluggard nature in ourBelves 
Is, in good truth, the better half of the aeeret 
To enthral the world : for the will governs all. 
See the sky lowers ! the cross-winds wa3^aidly 
Chase the fantastic masses of the clouds 
With a wild mockery of the coming hunt ! 

Cos. Mark yonder mass ! I make it wear the shape 
Of a huge ram that butts with head depressed. 

L. Rud. (sijniling.) Belike, some stray sheep of the oozy flock 
\Miich, if bards lie not, the sea-shepherds tend, 
Glaucus or Proteus. But my fancy shapes it 
A monster couchant on a rocky shelf 

Cas. Mark too the edges of the lurid mass — 
Restless, as if some idly- vexing Sprite, 
On swift wing coasting by, with tetchy hand 
Plucked at the ringlets of the vaporous fleece. 
These are sure signs of conflict nigh at hand. 
And elemental war ! 

[A sins^le trumpet Jieard at some distance. 

L. Rud. That single blast 

Announces that the tyrant's pawing courser 
Neighs at the gate. [ Trumpetx 

Hark I now the king comes forth ! 
For ever 'midst this crash of horns and clarions 
He mounts his steed, which proudly rears an end 
While he looks round at ease, and scans the crowd. 
Vain of his stately form and horsemanship I 
I must away ! my absence may be noticed. 

Cas. Oft as thou canst, essav to lead the hunt 
Hard by the forest-skirts ; and ere hi<rh noon 
Expect our sworn confederates from Temeswar. 
I trust, ere yet this clouded sun slo})es westward. 
That Emericks death, or Casimir's, will appease 
The manes of Zapolya and Kiuprili I [Exit Rudo/ph 

The traitor, Laska ! 

And yet Sarolta, simple, inexperienced, 

Could see him as he was, and often warned me. 

Whence learned she this ? — she was innocent I 

And to be innocent is nature's wisdom ! 

The Uedge-dove knows the piowXetft o^ vVe ^\i. 


Feared soon as seen; and flutters back to shelter. 

And the young steed recoils upon his haunches, 

The never-yet-seen adder's hiss first heard. 

surer than suspicion's hundred eyes 

Is that fine sense, which to the pure in heart, 

By mere oppugnancy of their own goodness, 

Reveals the approach of evil. Casimir I 

) fool ! parricide ! through yon wood didst, thou. 

With fire and sword, pursue a patriot father, 

A widow and an orphan. Dar'st thou then, 

(Curse-laden wretch) put forth these hands to raise 

The ark, all sacred, of thy country's cause ? 

Look down in pity on thy son, Kiuprili ! 

And let this deep abhorrence of his crime, 

Unstained with selfish fears, be his atonement ! 

strengthen him to nobler compensation 

In the deliverance of his bleeding country ! [Exit Casimir, 

Scene cJuinges to the mouth of a Cavern as in Act II, 
Zajwlya arid Glycine discovered. 

Zap. Our friend is gone to seek some safer cave : 
Do not then leave me long alone. Glycine I 
Having enjoyed thy commune, loneliness, 
That but oppressed me hitherto, now scares. 

Gly. I shall know Bethlen at the furthest distance. 
And the same moment I descry him, lady, 

1 will return to you. [Exit Glycine, 

Enter Old Batlwryy speaking as he enters 

O. Bat. Who hears ? a friend ! 

k messenger from him who bears the signet ! 

Zap. He hath the watchword ! — Art thou not Bathory ? 

O. Bat. noble lady I greetings from your son ! 

[Bathory kneels 

Zap, Rise ! rise ! Or shall I rather kneel beside thee, 
\ nd call down blessings from the wealth of Heaven 
Upon thy honored head ? When thou last saw'st me 
I would full fain have knelt to thee, and could not, 
Thou dear old man ! How o(l since then in dreams 
Have I done worship to thee, as an angel 
Bearing my beJpleaa babe upon thy win^\ 


O, Bat. he was bom to honor ! Gallant deeds 
And perilous hath he wrought since yester-eve. 
Now from Temeswar (for to him was trusted 
A life, save thine, the dearest) he hastes hither — 

Zap. Lady Sarolta mean'st thou ? 

O. Bat. She is sale. 

The royal brute hath overleapt his prey. 
And when he turned, a sworded Virtue faced him. 
My own brave boy — pardon, noble lady 1 
Your son 

Zap. Hark! Is it he ? 

O, Bat. I hear a voice 

Too hoarse for Bethlen's ! 'Twas his scheme and hope. 
Long ere the hunters could approach the forest 
To have led you hence. — ^Retire. 

Zap. life of terrors 

O. Bat. In the cave's mouth we have such 'vantage ground 
That even this old arm — 

[Exeunt Zajx)h/a and Bathory into the Cave. Enter 
Laska and Pestahttz. 

Las. Not a step further ! 

Pes. Dastard I was this your promise to the king ? 

Las. I have fulfilled his orders. Have walked with you 
As with a friend — have |K)inted out Lord Casimir — 
And now I leave you to take care of him. 
For the kinpr's purposes are doubtless friendly. 

Pes. Be on your guard, man I 

Ltas. Ha ! what now ? 

Fes. Behind you ! 

'Twas one of Satan's imps, that grinned and threatened you 
For your most impudent hope to cheat his master I 

Las. Pshaw I What, you think 'tis fear that makes me leave you ? 

Pes. Is't not enough to play the knave to others. 
But thou must lie to thine own heart ? 

Las. Friend I Laska will be found at his own post. 
Watching elsewhere lor the king s interest. 
There's a rank plot that La:^ka must hunt down, 
'Twixt Bethlen and Glycine I 

Pes. What I the girl 

Whom Jiflska saw the wai-wo\f leax \vl i^veces t 


Las. Well ! Take my arms I Hark ! should your javelin 
fail you, 
These points are tipt with veuom. 

[seeing Glycine toitliout. 
By Heaven ! Glycine ! 
Now as you love the king, help me to seize her ! 

[ They run out after Glycine. 
Enter Batliory from tlie Cavern. 
O. Bat, Rest, lady, rest ! I feel in every sinew 
A young man's strength returning ! Which way went they ? 
The shriek came thence. 

Enter Glycine. 
Oly. Ha I weapons here ? Then Bethlcn, thy Glycine 
Will die with thee or save thee ! 

[Site seizes tJiem and rusJies out. Bathory foUotoing. 

Music, and peasants with hunting spears cross the stage, Sinn 

trig chorally. 


Up, up ! ye dames, ye lasses gay ! 
To the meadows trip away. 
'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn. 
And scare the small hirds from the corn. 
Not a soul at home may stay : 

For the shepherds must go 

With lance and bow 
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. 


Leave the hearth and leave the house 
To the cricket and the mouse : 
Find grannam out a sunny seat. 
With babe and lambkin at her feet. 
Not a soul at home may stay : 

For the shepherds must go 

With lance and bow 
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. 

[Exeunt Huntsmen. 

Re-enter Batlwry, Betlden, and Glycine. 
Gly. And now once more a woman 


BeL Was it then 

That timid eye, was it those maiden hands 
That sped the shaft, which saved me and ayenged me ? 

O. Bat. *Twas as a vision blazoned on a cloud 
By lightning, shaped into a passionate scheme 
Of life and death ! I saw the traitor, Laska, 
Stoop and snatch up the javelin of his comrade ; 
The point was at your back, when her shaft reached bim. 
The coward turned, and at the self-same instant 
The braver villain fell beneath your sword. 

Enter Zapolya, 

Zap. Bethlen ! my child ! and safe too ! 

Bet. Mother ! dneen ! 

Royal Zapolya ! name me Andreas ! 
Nor blame thy son, if being a king, he yet 
Hath made his own arm minister of his justice. 
So do the gods who lanch the thunderbolt ! 

Zap. Raab Kiuprili I Friend I Protector ! Guide ! 
In vain we trcnclied the altar round with waters, 
A flash from Heaven hath touched the hidden incense-— 

Bet. And that majestic form that stood beside thee 
Was Raab Kiuprili I 

Zap. It was Raab Kiuprili : 

As sure as thou art Andreas, and the king. 

O. But. Hail Andreas I hail my king ! 

Afid. Stop, thou revered one. 

Lest we ofiend the jealouf destinies 
By shouts ere victor}'. Deem it then thy duty 
To pay this homage, when 'tis mine to claim it. 

Gly. Accept thine handmaids service ! [knedifig 

Zap. Raise her, son I 

raise her to thine arms! she saved thy lite, 
And through her love for thee, she saved thy mother's I 
Hereafter thou shalt know, that this dear maid 
Hath other and hereditary claims 
Upon thy heart, and with Heaven-guarded instinct 
But carried on the work her sire began I 

And. Dear maid ! more dear thou canst not be I the rest 
Shall make my love religion. Haste we hence : 
For as I reached the skirls of vVvw Yv\^\\ fox^v. 


T heai^ the noise and uproar of the chase, 
Doubling its echoes from the mountain foot. 

Oly. Hark ! sure the hunt approaches. 

[kom without and afterwards distant thunder. 

Zap. Kiuprili \ 

O. Bat. The demon-hunters of the middle air 
Are in full cry, and scare with arrowy lire 
The guilty I Hark ! now here, now there, a horn 
•Swells singly with irregular blast ! the tempest 
Has scattered them ! [Horns at a distance. 

Zap. Heavens ! where slays Kiuprili ? 

O. Bat. The wood will bo surrounded I leave me here. 

And. My mother ! let me see thee once iu safety, 
I too will hasten back, with lightning's speed. 
To seek the hero I 

O. Bat. Haste ! my life upon it 

ril guide him safe. 

And. (thunder.) Ha ! what a crash was there I 
Heaven seems to claim a mightier criminal 
Than yon vile subaltern. 

Zap. Your behest, High powers, 

Lo, I obey ! to the appointed spirit. 
That hath so long kept watch round this drear cavern, 
In fervent faith, Kiuprili, I intrust thee ! 

[Exeufit Zapoii/a, Andreas^ and Glycine, 

O. Bat. Yon bleeding corse may work us mischief still : 
Once seen, 'twill rouse alarm and crowd the hunt 
From all parts towards this spot. Stript of its armor, 
I'll drag it hither. [Exit Lathary. 

[Several Hunters cross the Stage 
Enter Kiuprili. 

R. Kiu. {throtving off his disguise.) Since Heaven alone can 
save me. Heaven alone 
Shall be my trust. 

Haste ! haste ! Zapolya, flee ! 
Cxone I Sfized perhaps ? Oh no, let me not perish 
Despairing of Heaven's justice ! Faint, disarmed, 
Each sinew powerless ; senseless rock, sustain ma ! 
Thou art parcel of my native land. 

A sword \ 


Ha ! and m} sword ! Zapolya hath escaped. 
The murderers are baffled, and there lives 
An Andreas to avenge Kiuprili'a fall ! — 
There was a time, when this dear sword did flash 
As dreadful as the storm-fire from mine arm — 
I can scarce raise it now — yet come, fell tyrant 
And bring with thee my shame and bitter anguish. 
To end his work and thine ! Kiuprili now 
Con take the death-blow as a soldier should. 

Be-enter Bathory, tcith Uie dead body of I^estalutz. 

O. Bat. Poor tool and victim of another's guilt I 
Thou follow 'st heavily : a reluclaut weight ! 
Good truth, it is an undeserved honor 
That in Zapolya and Kiuprili*s cave 
A wretch like thee should find a burial-place. 
Tis he ! — In Andreas' and Zapolya's name 
Follow me, reverend form I Thou neeil'st not speak. 
For thou canst be no other than Kiuprili I 

Kill. And are they sale ? [Noise trithout. 

O. Bat. Conceal yourself, my lord I 

I will mislead them I 

Kiu. Is Zapolya safe ? 

O. Bat. I doubt it not ; but haste, haste, I conjure you ! 

Enter Caaimir. 

Cas. Monster ! 

Thou shalt not now escape me ! 

O. Bat. Stop, lord Casimir I 

It is no monster. 

Cas. Art thou too a traitor ? 

Is this the place where Emerick's murderers lurk ? 
Say where is he that, tricked iu this disjruiso, 
First lured me on, then soured my dastard followers ? 
Thou must have seen him. Sav where is th' assat^siu ? 

O. Bat. There lies the assassin ! slain by that same sword 
That was descending on his curst employer. 
When entering thou beheld'st Sarolta rescued ! 

Cas. Strange providence ! what then was he who fled me 'if 
Thy looks speak fearful things ! Whither, old man I 
Would thy hand point me ? 

O. Bat. Cas\ia\T, Vo v\\^ ^a.>\vv2x. 


C<is. Tiie curse I the curse ! Open and swallow me, 
Unsteady earth I Fall, dizzy rocks ! and hide mo » 

O. Bat, Speak, speak, my lord ! 

Kiu. Bid him fulfil his work ! 

Cas. Thou art Heaven's inmiediate minister, dread spirit I 
O for sweet mercy, take some other form, 
And save me from perdition and despair ! 

O. Bat. He lives ! 

Cas. Lives ! a father's curse can never die I 

Kiu. Casimir I Casimir ! 

O. Bat. Look ! he doth forgive j'ou ! 

Hark ! 'tis the tyrant's voice. 

[Emerick's voice tailhout. 

Cas. I kneel, 1 kneel ! 

Ketract thy curse ! 0, by my mother's ashes, 
Have pity on thy self abhorring child ! 
If not for me, yet for my innocent wife, 
Yet for my country's sake, give my arm strength, 
Permitting me again to call thee father ! 

Kiu. Son, I forgive thee I Take thy father's sword ; 
When thou shalt Hit it in thy country's cause. 
In that same instant doth thy father bless thee ! 

Enter Emerick. 

Erne. Fools I Cowards ! follow — or by Hell I'll make you 
Find reason to fear Emerick, more than all 
The mummer-fiends that ever masqueraded 
As gods or wood-nymphs ! — 

Ha ! 'tis don then ! 
Our necessary villain hath proved faithful, 
And there lies Casimir, and our last fears ! 

Well !— Aye, well ! 

And is it not well ? For though grafted on : ', 
And filled too with our sap, the deadly power 
Of the parent poison-tree lurked in its fibres : 
There was too much of Haab Kiuprili in him 
The old enemy looked at me in his face, 
E'en when his words did flatter me with duty. 

Enter Casimir and Bathary. 

O. Bat. {aside.) This way they come ! 


Cas. (aside.) Hold them in check awhile. 
The path is narrow ! Rudolph will assist thee. 

Eme. (abide.) And ere I nng the alarm of my aonow, 
ril scan that face once more, and murmur — Here 
Lies Casimir, and last of the Kiuprilis ! 
Hell : His Pestalutz ! 

Cas. (coming for icard.) Yes, thou ingrate Emerick ! 
'Tis Pestalutz I 'tis thy trusy murderer I 
To quell thee morC; see Raab Kiuprili*s sword ! 

Eme. Curses on it, and thee ! Think'st thou that petty omen 
Dare whisper fear to Emerick's destiny ? 
Ho I Treason ! Treason I 

Cas. Then have at thee, tyrant ! 

{They fight, Emerick falh, 

Eme. Betrayed and baffled 
By mine own tool ! Oh I \diet. 

Cas. Hear, hear, my father I 

Thou shouldst have witnessed thine own deed. O father, 
Wake from that envious swoon I The tvrant*8 fallen : 
Thy sword hath coii([iiered I As I lifted it 
Thy blessing did indeed descend upon me, 
Dislodging the dread curse. It flew forth from rne 
And lighted on the tyrant ! 

Enter llufhlpli, Bathonj, and Attendants. 

Rud. and Bat. Friends ! friends to Casimir. 

Cds. Rejoice, lUyrians ! the usurper's fallen. 

Rud. So perish tyrants I so end usurpation I 

Cas. Bear hence the body, and move slowly on ! 

One moment 

Devoted to a joy, that bears no witness, 
I follow you, and we will greet our countrj'mcn 
With the two best and fullest gills of heaven — 
A tyrant fallen, a patriot chief restored I 

[Casimir enters tfie Cavern. 

Scene, Chamber in Casimir s Castle. Confederates discovered 

1st Cofi. It can not but succeed, friends. From this palace 
E'en to the wood, our messengers are posted. 
With such short interspace, that fast as soinid 
Can travel to us. we shall Yeatu \\ve ^ve\\\.\ 


Enter another Confederale, 
^Tiat tidings from Temeawar ? 

2d Con. With one voice 

Th* assembled chieflains have deposed the tyrant ; 
He is proclaimed the public enemy, 
And the protection of the law withdrawn. 

\st Con. Just doom for him, who governs without law! 
Is it known on whom the sovereignty will fall ? 

2d Con. Nothing is yet decided : but report 
Points to Lord Casimir. The grateful memory 

Of his renowned father 

Enter Sarolta. 

Hail to Sarolta ! 

Sar. Confederate friends ! I bring to you a joy 
Worthy your noble cause 1 Kiuprili lives, 
And from his obscure exile hath returned 
To bless our couutry. More and greater tidings 
Might I disclose ; but that a woman's voice 
Would mar the wondrous tale. Wait we for him, 
The partner of the glory — Raab Kiuprili ; 
For he alone is worthy to announce it. 

[Shouts (?/" Kiuprili, Kiuprili," awe/ *• The Tyrant's fallen," 
witlumt. Enter Kiuprili^ Casimir, Rudolph, Ba^ 
thory, and Attendants. 

R. Kiu. Spare yet your joy, my friends I A higher waits you : 
Behold, your Clueen ! 

Enter Zapolya a?ul Andreas royally attired with Glycine, 

Con. Comes she i'rom heaven to bless us ? 

Otlier Con. It is ! it is ! 

Zap. Heaven's work of grace is full ^ 

Kiuprili, thou art safe ! 

R. Kiu. Royal Zapolya ! 

To the heavenly powers pay we our duty first ; 
Who not alone preserved thee, but ibr thee 
And for our country, the one precious branch 
Of Andreas' royal house. countrymen, 
Beholl your King ! And thank our country's genius, 
That the same means which have preserved our sovereiga 
Have likewise reared him worthier of the throne 
Bv virtue than by birth. The undoubted ytooV^ 


Fledged by his royal mother, tnd thii tM man, 
(Whose name henceforth be dear to all lUyiiaai) - 
We baate to Uy beTore the SMembled oonncil. 

AU. Hail, Andreas ! Hail, Illyria'a li^tfal Uiig I 

And. Sapported tbna, O frieoda ! 'twme cowudiea 
Unworthy of a royal birth, to Bhrink 
From the appointed charge. Yet, while we wait 
The awfnl SBDCtion of convened Itlyria, 
In this brief while, let me feel myself 
The child, tbe friend, the debtor ! — Heroie moUiet ! 
Bat what can breath add to that sacred name T 
Kiuprili I gift of Providence, to teach na 
That loyaltyiB but tbe public form 
Of the Bublimest friendehip, let my yonth 
Olimb roond thee, as the vine around its elm ; 
Thou my support and I thy faithful fruitage. 
My heart ia tiiU, and these poor words express Bol, 
They are but an art to check its overswelling. 
Bathory ! shrink not from my filial arms I 
Now, and from henceforth thou shalt not forlnd m« 
To call thee father! And dure 1 forget 
The powerful intercession of thy virtue. 
Lady Sarolta ! Still acknowledge me 
Tfay faithful soldier!— But what invocation 
Shall my full soul address to thee. Glycine ? 
Thou Bword that leap'dat forth from a bed of rosea, — 
Thou falcon -hearted dove ! 

Zap. Hear that from me, son ! 

Pot ere she UvvA, her father snved thy life, 
Thine, and thy fugitive mother's I 

Cos. Chef Ragotai '. 

shame upon my head ! I would have given her 
To a base slave ! 

Zap. Heaven overruled thy purpose, 

And sent an angel to thy houie to guard her ! 
Thou precious bark ! freighted with all our treasaTes ! 
The sports of tempests, and yet ne'ct the victim. 
How many may claim salvage in thee '. 

Take her, eon! 



A. queen that brings with her a richer dowry 
Than orient kings can give ! 

Sar. A banquet waits I — 

On this auspicious day, for some few hours 
I claim to be your hostess. Scenes so awful 
With flashing light, force wisdom on us all ! 
£*en women at the distafl* hence may sec, 
That bad men may rebel, but ne'er be free ; 
May whisper, when the waves of faction foam, 
None love their country, but who love their home ; 
Nor freedom can with those alone abide. 
Who wear the golden chain, with honest pride, 
Of love and duty, at their own fire-side : 
While road ambition ever doth caress 
Its own sure fate, in its own restlessnoes I 





under Wallfmlein, 


VtLLEsmmti, Jtakt of FritJlamd, OeueralUtima of On Imptrial Ana if. 

the Thirlg Year/ War. 

ILo. PiocoLOxm, flit tiim, Culonel of a Seyiment tf Cuirmnitn. 
CotniT TrnUT, (A< Commaitdtr of mtral Segattnit, and PrrfAtr i» f «■ 

of WaUentleiH. 
lixo, fUU-Uartkat. Walltrulein; ConjUaml. 
boLA!'!. Oeneral of Ihe Croait. 
Bdtleb, an /i-uAman, Onmiiandrr of a Ra/iimait ofDrmpeoma, 


Goto r 


Nel-basx, Captain of Caealri/. AiJ-Je-Camp to Terttkg. 
The War Commiuiomr, Von Qlestenbeku. Imperial Jua^ 
Oexibai. Wkaxgel, Sitejiii Eneai/. 
Battibieb Sesi, Aitrolo'jtr. 

Dl-CHSHS OF t'BIEDLAM., IKifV of WotUntlrin. 

Tbeela. her Daughter. Prineea of FriedUnd. 
Thk CocsTtsa TtaiSKY. SiHer of the Duchrii. 


Several Colonels and Gene&als. 
Pages and AiTESUA-vra br'anging la Wallemleta, 
Attesdaxib and Uonoisw beiingiBg to Tertsky. 
The JLasteb of the Cell.vb to Oiant Terlakf 
Valkt de CBAMBttK of Counl Pietoloatini. 



The two Dramas, Piccoloxini, or the first part of Wallenstein, and 
Wallenstein, are introduced ia the original manuscript by a prelude in one 
Act, entitled Wallenstein's Camp. This is written in rhyme, and in nine 
Bvlluble verse, in the same lilting metre (if that cxpresdiou may be per- 
mitted) with the second Eclogue of Spenser's Shepherd's Calendar. 

This Prelude possesses a sort of broad humor, and is not deficient in 
character ; but to have translated it into prose, or into any other metre 
than that of the original, would have given a false notion both of its style 
and purport ; to have translated it into the same metre would have been 
incompatible with a faithful adherence to the sense of the German, from 
the comparative poverty of our language in rhymes ; and it would have 
been unadvisable from the incongruity of those lax verses with the present 
taste of the English Public Schiller's intention seems to have been merely 
to have prepared his reader for the Tragedies by a lively picture of the 
laxity of discipline, and the mutinous dispositions of Wallenstein's soldiery. 
It is not necessary as a preliminary explanation. For these reasons it has 
been thought expedient not to translate it. 

llie admirers of Schiller, who have alMtracted their conception of that 
author from the Robbers, and the Cabal and Love, plays in which the main 
interest is produced by the excitement of curiosity, and in which the curi- 
osity is excited by terrible and extraordinary incident, will not have perused, 
without some portion of disappointment, the dramas, which it has been my 
employment to translate. They should, however, reflect that these are his- 
torical dramas, taken from a popular German history ; that we must there- 
fore judge of them in some measure with the feelings of Germans; or by 
analogy with the interest excited in us by similar dramas in our own lan- 
guage. Few, I trust, would be rash or ignorant enough to compare Schiller 
with Shakspcare ; yet, merely as illustration, I would say that we should 
proceed to the |)eru»al of W.'iUenstein, not from Lear or Othello, but from 
Richard the Second, or the three parts of Henry the Sixth. We scarcely 
expect rapidity in an historical drama ; and many prolix speeches are par- 
doned from characters, whose names and actions have formed the most 
amusing tales of our early life. On the other Imnd, there exist in thei»e 
plays more individual beauties, more passages, the excellence of which will 
oear reflection, than in the former productions of Schiller. The description 
f the astrological tower, and the reflections of iVift "^owx\\» \v^\^Y,Vv\v^\ 
§oXU>wit^ Jbrm ia ibe origiaaii a fine poom; and my \.T%x\*\ft.\Ao\\ vcvvvkX.'Wsv- 


been wretched indeed, if it can hmve wbollj orereknidad llie beratieiof the 
•cene in the first act of the first play between Questenberg, Max. and Oetar 
vio Piooolomini. If we except the scene of the setting sun in the Bobben, 
I know of no [Murt in Schiller's Plays which equals the whole of the first 
scene of the fiilh act of the concluding play. It would be anbecoming in 
me to be more diffuse on this subject A translator stands oonneeted with 
the original author by a certain law of subordination, which makes it more 
decorous to point out excellencies than defects : indeed he is not likdr tc 
be a fair judge of either. The pleasore or disgust from his own labor will 
mingle with the feelings that arise from an after-view of the originaL £r«u 
in the first perusal of a work in any foreign language which we understand 
we are apt to attribute to it more excellence than it really possesseis from 
^potn' our own pleasurable sense of difficulty overcome without eSort 
Translation of poetry into poetry is difficult, because the translator must 
give a brilliancy to his language without that warmth of original conceptioo, 
from which such brilliancy would follow of its own accord. But the trans 
lator of a living author is encumbered with additional inoonveniencea. If 
he render his original faithfully, as to the sense of eakxh. passage, he most 
necessarily destroy a considerable portion of the spirit ; if he endeavor to 
give a work executeil according to laws of compensation, he subjects him- 
self to imputatious of vauity, or misrepresentation. I have thought it my 
duly to remain bound by the sense of my original, with as few exceptima 
as the nature of the language rendered possible.* 

It was my intention to have prefixed a Life of Wallenstein to this tran«- 
latiou ; but I found that it must either have occupied a space wholly dis- 
proportionate to the nature of the publication, or have been merely a 
meagre catalogue of events narrated not more fully than they already are 
in the Play itself. The recent traDslati(»n, likewise, of Schiller's Hi£aY>Ri 
or TUE Thirty Yeaus* War diminished the motives thereto. In the trans 
lation I endeavored to render my Author literalltf wherever I was not pre- 
vented by absolute differences of idiom ; but I am conscious that in two or 
three short passages I have been guilty of dilating the original ; and frtmi 
anxiety to give the full mcaniui^, have weakened the force. In the metre 
I have availed nivsolf of no other liberties than those which Schiller had 
permitted to himself, except the occasional breaking-up of the line by the 
substitution of a trt>chee f.»r an iambus; of which liberty, so frequent in 

our tragedies, I find no instance in these dramas.f 


* Orii^nally prefixed to ihc translation of the second part, but appamitly as a 
t Orig;inally prefixed to the iraoslatioii of the first part. 



Scene I. — An old Gothic Chamber in the Council-house ai 
Filsen, decorated with colors and other war insignia. 

lUo toith Butler and Isdani. 

lllo. Ye have come late — ^but ye are come ! The distance. 
Count Isolan, excuses your delay. 

Is^j, Add this too, that we come not empty handed. 
At Donauwert* it was reported to us, 
A Swedish caravan was on its way 
Transporting a rich cargo of provision, 
Almost six hundred wagons. This my Croats 
Plunged down upon and seized, this weighty prize ! — 
We bring it hither 

lllo. Just in time to banquet 

The illustrious company assembled here. 

But. 'Tis all alive ! a stirring scene here ! 

Iso. Ay ! 

The very churches are all full of soldiers. 
And in the Council-house, too, I observe, 

[ Casts his eye round. 
You're settled, quite at home ! "Well, well ! we soldiers 
Must shifl and suit us in what way we can. 

Bio. We have the Colonels here of thirty regiments. 
You'll find Count Tertsky here, and Tiefenbach, 
Kolatto, Goetz, Maradas, Hinnersam, 

The ricx)olomini, both son and father 

You'll meet with many an unexpected greeting 
From many an old friend and acquaintance. Only 
Galas is wanting still, and Altringer. 

But. Expect not Galas. 

^ A town about twelve German miles IS.*^ ot WVsi 


Illo. {hesitating.) How to? Do yon know 

lao. {interruptifig Aim.) Max. Piccolomini here ! — O Inaf 
me to him. 
1 see him yet, ('lis now ten years ago. 
We were engaged with Mansfeld hard by De«ua) 
I see the youth, in my mind's eye I see him, 
Jjeap his black war-borae from the bridge adown. 
And toward his father, then in extreme peril. 
Beat up against the strong tide of the Elbe. 
The down waa scarce upon his chin ! I hear 
He has made good the promise of his youtb- 
And the full hero now is finished in him. 

Illo. You'll see him yet ere evening. Ur conducts 
The Duchess Friedland hither, and the Princess 
from Karntben. We expect them here at noon. 

But. Both wife and daughter does iho Duke call hither ? 
He crowds in visilanls from all sides. 

/so. Km ! 

So much the better ! I had framed my mind 
To he>tr of nauglit but warlike circumstance, 
or marches, and attacks, and batteries : 
And lo ! the Duke provides, that something too 
Of gentler sort, and lovely, should be present 
To feast our eyes. 

2Uo. [iclio has been standing in tJte attttutle of meilitfUion,*. 
Butler, 11 horn he leads a little on one side. 
And how came you to know 
That the Count Galas joins us not ? 

But. Because 

He importuned me (o remain behind. 

Illo. (iri//( warmth.) And you 1 — You hold out firmly ? 
{Grasping his Itaml icifh affection.) Koble Butler ! 

Bur. AHer the obligation which the Duke 
Had laid so newly on me 

Illo. I had forgottea 

A pleasant duly — M.uoK General, 
I wish you joy ! 

Iso. Wliat, j-ou mean, of his regiment? 

I hear, too, that to make the gia still sweeter. 
The I>uke has given him ttie \ei\ «*tne 


111 which he first saw seirice, and since then, 

Worked himself, step by step, through each preferment, 

From the ranks upwards. And verily, it gives 

A precedent of hope, a spur of action 

To the whole corps, if once in their remembrance 

An old deserving soldier makes his way. 

But, I am perplexed and doubtful, whether or no 
I dare accept this your congratulation. 
The Emperor has not yet confirmed the appointment. 

Iso. Seize it, friend ! Seize it ! The hand which in that post 
Placed you, is strong enough to keep you there, 
Spite of the Emperor and his Ministers. 

Bio. Ay, if we would but so consider it ! — 
If we would all of us consider it so ! 
The Emperor gives us nothing ; from the Duke 
Comes all — whatever we hope, whatever wo have. 

Iso. (to lllo.) My noble brother ! did I tell you how 
The Duke will satisfy my creditors ? 
Will be himself my banker for the future. 
Make me once more a creditable man ! — 
And this is now the third time, think of that I 
This kingly-minded man has rescued me 
From absolute ruin, and restored my honor. 

lllo. that his power but kept pace with his wishes I 
"Why, friend ! he'd give the whole world to his soldiers 
But at Vienna, brother ! — here's the grievance ! — 
What politic schemes do they not lay to shorten 
His arm, and, where they can, to clip his pinions 
Then these new dainty requisitions ! these. 
Which this same Questenberg brings hither ! — 

But. Ay, 

These requisitions of the Emperor, — 
I too have heard about them ; but I hope 
The Duke will not draw back a single inch ! 

nio. Not from his right most surely, unless first — 
I'^rom office ! 

But. (shocked and confused.) Know you aught then ? You 
alarm me. 

Iso. {at the same time tcith Butler ^ and. in a Htirrxcd xoxcfcX 
We should be ruined every one of us I 


nio. No more! 

Yonder I see our worthy friend^ approaching 
With the Lieutenant-General, Piccolomini. 

But, (shaking his head significantly,) I fear we shall not gu 
hence as we came. 

Scene II. — Enter Octavio Piccototnini and Questenberg. 

Oct. {still in the distance.) Ay, ay ! more still ! Still more 
new visitors ! 
Acknowledge, friend ! that never was a camp, 
Which held at once so many heads of heroes. 

[Approaching nearer . 
Welcome, Count Isolani ! 

Iso. My noble brother, 

Even now am I arrived ; it had been else my duty 

Oct. And Colonel Butler — trust me, I rejoice 
Thus to renew acquaintance with a man 
Whose worth and services I know and honor. 
See, see, my friend I 

There might we place at once before our eyes 
The sum of war's whole trade and mystery — 

[To Questenberg, ^^res^w^iMg" Butler and Isolani €U tke 
same time to him. 
These two the total sum — Strength and Despatch. 

Ques. {to Octavio.) Audio! betwixt them both experienced 

Prudence ! 
Oct. {presenting Queste^iberg to Butler afid Isolani.) The 
Chamberlain and War-commissioner Q^uestenbcrg, 
The bearer of the Emperor's behests, 
The long-tried friend and patron of all soldiers, 
We honor in this noble visitor. [ Universal silence. 

lUo. {moving towards Questenberg.) 'Tis not the first time, 
noble Minister, 
Yon have shown our camp this honor. 

Ques. Once before 

[ stood before these colors. 

lilo Perchance, too, you remember where that was. 


It was at Znkim* in Moravia, whero 

You did present yourself on the part 

Of the Emperor, to supplicate our Duke 

That he would straight assume the chief command. 

Ques. To supplicate? Nay, noble General ! 
So far extended neither my commission 
(At least to my own knowledge) nor my zeal. 

Illo. "Well, well, then — to compel him, if you choose. 
I can remember me right well. Count Tilly 
Had suffered total rout upon the Lech. 
Bavaria lay all open to the enemy, 
Whom there was nothing to delay from pressing 
Onwards into the very heart of Austria. 
At that time you and Werdenberg appeared 
Before our General, storming him with prayers. 
And menacing- the Emperor's displeasure, 
(Jnlcss he took compassion on this wretchedness. 

Iso. {steps up to them.) Yes, yes, 'tis comprehensible enougL 
Wherefore with your commission of to-day 
You were not all too willing to remember 
Your former one. 

Ques. Why not. Count Isolan? 

No contradiction sure exists between them. 
It was the urgent business of that time 
To snatch Bavaria from her enemy's hand ; 
And my commission of to-day instructs me 
To free her from her good friends and protectors. 

Illo. A worthy office ! After with our blood 
We have wrested this Bohemia from the Saxon, 
To be swept out of it is all our thanks, 
The sole reward of all our hard-won victories. 

Ques. Unless that wretched land be doomed to suffer 
Only a change of evils, it must be 
^reed from the scourge alike of friend and foe. 

Jllo. What ? 'twas a favorable year ; the Boors 
Can answer fresh demands already. 

Ques. Nay, 
If you discourse of herds and meadow-grounds 

* A town not hr from the Mine-monntaint, on th« Vvv^ tc3«A ^ra«& 
/iamw to Pngae. 


I$o. The war maintains the war. Are the Boon miiiocL 
The Emperor gains so many more new soldiers. 

Ques. And is the poorer by even so many subjects. 

Iso. Poh ! we are all his subjects. 

Qucs. Yet with a difierence, General ! The one nu 
With profitable industry the purse, 
The others are well skilled to empty it. 
The sword has made the Emperor poor ; the plough 
Must re>invigorate his resources. 

Iso, Sure ! 

Times are not vet so bad. Methinks I see 

[Examining with his eye the dress and amamenis of 
Good store of gold that still remains uncoined. 

Ques. Thank Heaven! that means have been found out to 
Some little from the fingers of the Croats. 

Illo. There ! the Stawata and the Martini tz, 
On whom the Emperor heaps his gifts and graces. 
To the hearl-buniiiig of all good Bohemians — 
Those minions of court favor, those court harpies, 
Who fatten on the wrecks of citizu^ns 

Driven from their Louse aud home — ^who reap no harvests 
Save in the general calamity — 
Who now, with kingly pomp, insult and mock 
The desolation of their couutrv — tlicse, 
L#et these, and such as these, support the war, 
The fatal war, which thev alone enkindled ! 

But. And those state-parasites, who have their feet 
So constantly beneath the Emperors table. 
Who can not let a benefice fall, but they 
Snap at it with dog's hunger — they, forsooth. 
Would ^rc the soMier's bread, and cross his reckoning I 

Iso. My life long will it anger me to think. 
How when I went to court seven years ago, 
To see about new horses for our regiment, 
How from one antechamber to another 
They dragged me on, and left me by the hour 
To kick my heels among a crowd of simpering 
Feast-/a(tened slaves, as \{ \ YvaiiV cots\^ \.Vv\N\vvix 


A mendicant suitor for the crumbs of favor 
That fall beneath their tables. And, at last, 
Whom should they send me but a Capuchin I 
Straight I began to muster up my sms 
For absolution — but no such luck for me f 
Tltis was the man, this Capuchin, with whom 
I was to treat concerning the army horses : 
And I was forced at last to quit the field. 
The business unaccomplished. Aflerwards 
The Duke procured me in three days, what I 
Could not obtain in thirty at Vienna. 

Qnes. Yes, yes! your travelling bills soon found their way 
Too well I know we have still accounts to settle. 

lllo. War is a violent trade : one can not always 
Finish one's work by soft means ; every trifle 
Must not be blackened into sacrilege. 
If we should wait till you, in solemn council, 
With due deliberation had selected 
The smallest out of four-and-twenty evils, 
r faith we should wait long. — 

" Dash ! and through with it !" — That's the better watch-word. 
Then after come what may come. 'Tis man's nature 
To make the best of a bad thing once past. 
A bitter and perplexed *• what shall I do ?" 
Is worse to man than worst necessity. 

Ques. Ay, doubtless, it is true : the Duke does spare us 
The troublesome task of choosing. 

But, Yes, the Duke 

Cares with a father's feelings for his troops ; 
But how the Emperor feels for us, we see. 

Qaes. Ilia cares and feelings all ranks share alike, 
Nor will he offer one up to another. 

Iso, And therefore thrusts he us into the deserts 
As beasts of prey, that so he may preserve 
His dear sheep fattening in his fields at home. 

Ques. (with a sneer.) Count, this comparison you make, not I 

But. Why, were we all the Court supposes us, 
'Twere dangerous, sure, to give us liberty. 

Ques. You have taken liberty — it wa& not ^^eti '^o^. 

490 THE PIOOOLOlCnil: 

And therefore it becomes aq argent duty 
To rein it in with curbs. 

Oct. {interposing and addressing Questenberg.') ICj noUs 

This IB no more than a remembnncing 

That you are now in camp, and among warriois. 

The soldier's boldness coostitutefl his freedom. 

Could he act daringly, unless he dared 

Talk even so ? One runs into the other. 

The boldness of this worthy officer, [Pointing to Butler. 

Which now has but mistaken in its mark, 

Preserved, when naught but boldness coutd preserve it. 

To the Emperor his capital city, Prague, 

In a most formidable mutiny 

Of the whole garrison. [MUitanf tniaic at a distance. 

Hah ! here they come I 

Illo. The sentries are saluting them : this ugnal 
Announces the arrival of the Duchess. ^ 

Oct. {to Qitcstcnbcrg.) Then my son Mai. too has returned. 
'Twas he 
Fetched and attended them from Kkrnthen hither. 

/so. {lo Illo.) Shall we not po in company to greet them f 

lUa. ^Vell, let us go, — Ho ! Colonel Butler, come. 

{To Octavio. 
You'll not forget, that yet ore noon we meet 
The noble Envoy at the General's palace. 

[ICxcunt all but Qucstenberg and Octario. 

ScESE UI. — Queslenlierg and Octavio. 

Ques. (irirk signs of aversion and astonishment) What havo 
I not been forced to hear, Octavio ! 
What sentiments ! what fierce, uncurbed defiance ! 
And were this spirit universal — 

Oct. Hm ! 

You arc now acquainted with three fuurths of the anny. 

Ques. Where must we soL'k then for a second host 
To have the custody of this ? That Illo 
Thinks worse, I fear mc, than he speaks. And then 
This Butler, too,— he can not even conceal 
The jwsaioiutta woikinga ot \iis i\\ m\«a\\o\A. 


Oct. Cluickness of temper — irritated pride ; 
Twos nothing more. I can not give up Butler. 
I know a spell that will soon dispossess 
The evil spirit in him, 

Ques. {walking up and down in evident disquiet.) Friend 
friend ! 
! this is worse, far worse, than we had sufiered 
Ourselves to dream of at Vienna. There 
We saw it only with a courtier's eyes, 
Eyes dazzled hy the splendor of the throne. 
We had not seen the war-chief, the commander, 
The man all-powerful in his camp. Here, here, 
'Tis quite another thing. 

Here is no Emperor more — the Duke is Emperor. 
Alas, my friend ! alas, my nohle friend ! 
This walk which you have ta'en me through the camp 
Strikes my hopes prostrate. 

Oct. Now you see yourself 

Of what a periloul kind the office is, 
Which you deliver to me from the Court. 
The least suspicion of the General 
Costs me my freedom and my life, and would 
But hasten his most desperate enterprise. 

Ques. Where was our reason sleeping when we trusted 
This madman with the sword, and placed such power 
In such a hand ? I tell you he'll refuse. 
Flatly refuse, to obey the Imperial orders. 
Friend, he can do't, and what he can, he will. 
And then the impunity of his defiance — 
! what a proclamation of our weakness ! 

Oct. D'ye think, too, he has brought his wife and daughter 
Without a purpose hither ? Here in camp ! 
And at the very point of time, in which 
We're arming for the war ? That he has taken 
These, the last pledges of his loyalty. 
Away from out the Emperor's domains — 
This is no doubtful token of the nearness 
Of some eruption ! 

Ques. How shall we hold footing 

Beneath this tempest, which collecla ilseVt 


And threats us from all quarters ? The enemy 
Of the empire oa our borders, now already 
The master of the Danube, and still farther, 
And farther stiU, extending every hour ! 
In our interior the alarum-bells 

Of insurrection — peasantry in arms 

AJl orders discontented — and the army, 
Just in the moment of our expectation 
Of aidance from it — lo I this very army 
Seduced, run wild, lost to all discipline. 
Lfoosened, and rent asunder from the state 
And from their sov'reign, the blind instrument 
Of the most daring of mankind, a weapon 
Of fearful power, which at his will he wields ! 

Oct. Nay, nay, friend ! let us not despair too sDon, 
Men's words are ever bolder than their deeds : 
And many a resolute, who now appears 
Made up to all extremes, will, on a sudden. 
Find in his breast a heart be knew not of, 
Lut but a single honest man speak out 
The true name of his crime I Remember, too. 
We stand not yet so wholly unprotected. 
Counts Allringer and Galas have maintained 
Their little army faithful to its duty, 
And daily it becomes more numerous. 
Nor can he take us by surprise : you know, 
I hold him all encompassed by my listeners. 
Whate'er he does, is mine, even while 'tis doing — 
No step so small, but instantly 1 hear it. 
Yea, his own mouth discloses it. 

Ques. 'Tis quite 

Incomprehensible, that he detects not 
The foe so near ! 

Oct. Beware, you do not think. 

That I by lying arts, and complaisant 
Hjpocrisy, have skulkd into his graces; 
Or with the sustenance of smooth professions 
Nourish his all-conliding friendship I No^ 
Compelled alike by prudence, and that duty 
Which we all owe our country, and our sovereign. 


To hide my genuine feelings from him, yet 
Ne'er have 1 duped him with hase counterfeits 

Ques. It is the visible ordinance of heaven. 

Oct. I know not what it is that so attracts 
And links him both to me and to my son. 
Comrades and friends we always were — long habit, 
Adventurous deeds performed in compauy, 
\iid all those many and various incidents 
Which store a soldier's memory with aflections, 
Had bound us long and early to each other — 
Yet I can name the day, when all at once 
His heart rose on me, and his confidence 
Shot out in sudden growth. It was the morning 
Before the memorable fight at Liitzncr. 
Urged by an ugly dream, I sought him out, 
To press him to accept another charger. 
At distance from the tents, beneath a tree, 
I found him in a sleep. When I had waked him, 
And had related all my bodings to him, 
Long time he stared upon me, like a man 
Astounded ; thereon fell upon my neck. 
And manifested to me an emotion 
That far outstripped the worth of that small sen'ice. 
Since then his confidence has followed me 
With the same pace that mine has fled from him. 

Ques. You lead your son into the secret ? 

Oct. No ! 

Ques. What ? and not warn him either what bad hand8 
His lot has placed him in ? 

Oct. I must perforce 

Leave him in wardship to his innocence. 
His young and open soul^-dissimulation 
Is foreign to its habits ! Ignorance 
Alone can keep alive the cheerful air, 
The unembarrassed sense and light free spirit, 
That make the Duke secure. 

Qi/cs. {anxiously.) My honored friend ! most highly do I deem 

Of Colonel Ficcolomini — yet — if 

Reilect a httle 

Oct. I must venture it. 

Htish ! — There he romen I 


Scene IV. — Max, Piccdomim, Octavio Piccolomim^ 


Max. Ha ! there he is himself. Weloome, my father ! 

[He embraces hisfat?ier. As he turns round he observes 
Questenberg, and draws lack with a cold €Usd reserred 
You are engaged, I see. I'll not listurb you. 

Oct. How, Max. ? Look closer at this visitor ; 
Attention, Max., an old friend merits — ^Reverence 
Belongs of right to the envoy of 3'our sovereign. 

Max. {drily.) Von duestenborg ! — ^Welcome — if you Inriiig with 
Aught good to our head-quarters. 

Ques. {seizing his liand.) Nay, draw not 
Your hand away. Count Piccolomini ! 
Not oil mine own account alone I seized it. 
And nothing common will I say therewith. 

[ Taking the hands of both, 
Octavio — Max. Piccolomini I 

saviour names, and full of happy omen ! 

Ne'er will her prosperous genius turn from Austria, 
While two such stars, with blessed influences 
Beaming protection, shine above her hosts. 

Max. Hey I — Noble minister I You miss your part. 
You came not here to act a pancg}'ric. 
You're sent, I know, to find fault and to scold us — 

1 must not be beforehand 'with my comrades. 

Oct. {to Max.) He comes from court, where people are not quita 
So well contented with the Duke, as here. 

Max. What now have they contrived to find out in him ? 
That he alone determines for himself 
What he himself alone doth understand ? 
Well, therein he does right, and will persist in't. 
Heaven never meant him for that passive thing 
That can be struck and hammered out to suit 
Another's taste and fancv. He'll not dance 
To every time of ever)' minister. 
It goes against his nature — he can't do it- 
He 28 possessed by a comtuawOAiv^ «^\t\\.. 


A.nd his too is the station of command. 

And well for us it is so ! There exist 

Few fit to rule themselves, but few that use 

Their intellects intelligently. — Then 

Well for the whole, if there be found a man, 

Who makes himself what nature destined him. 

The pause, the central point to thousand thousands — 

Stands fixed and stately, like a firm-built column. 

Where all may press with joy and confidence. 

Now such a man is Wallenstein ; and if 

Another better suits the Court — ^no other 

But such a one as he can serve the army. 

Ques. The army ? Doubtless ! 

Oct. {aside to Questcnberg.) Hush ! suppress it, friend I 
Unless some end were answered by the utterance. — 
Of him there you'll make nothing. 

Max. In their distress 

They call a spirit up, and when he comes, 
Straight their flesh creeps and quivers, and they dread him 
More than the ills for which they called him up. 
The uncommon, the sublimOf must seem and be 
Like things of every day. — But in the field. 
Ay, tJiere the Present Being makes itself felt. 
The personal must command, the actual eye 
Examine. If to be the chieflain asks 
All that is great in nature, let it be 
Likewise his privilege to move and act 
In all the correspondencies of greatness. 
The oracle within him, that which lives^ 
He must invoke and question — not dead boods, 
Not ordinances, not mould-rotted papers. 

Oct. My son ! of those old narrow ordinances 
Let us not hold too lightly. They are weights 
Of priceless value, which oppressed mankind 
Tied to the volatile will of their oppressors. 
For always formidable was the league 
And partnership of free power with free will. 
The way of ancient ordinance, though it winds 
Is yet no devious way. Straight forward goes 
The lightning's path, and straight the feai^A ^«A>[i 


Of the cannon-ball. Direct it flies and rapid, 

•Shattering that it niay reach, and shattering what it 

My son ! the road, the human being travels, 

That, on vrhich blessing comes and goes, doth follow 

The river's course, the valley's pla}'ful windings, 

Curves round the corn-field and the hill of vines. 

Honoring the holy bounds of property I 

And thus secure, though late, leads to its end. 

Ques, hear your father, noble youth ! hear l^m 
Who is at once the hero and the man. 

Oct. My son, the nursling of the camp spoke in thee I 
A war of fifleen years 
Hath been thy education and thy school. 
Peace hast thou never witnessed ! There exists 
A higher than the warrior's excellence. 
In war itself war is no ultimate purpose. 
The vast and sudden deeds of violence. 
Adventures wild, and wonders of the moment, 
These are not they, my son. that generate 
Tlie Culm, the Blissful, and the enduring Mighty ! 
Lo there I the soldier, rapid architect I 
Builds his light town of canvass, and at once 
The whole scene moves and bustles momently, 
With arms and neighing steeds, and mirth and quarrel 
The motley market fills ; the roads, the streams 
Are crowded with new freights, trade stirs and hurries ! 
But on some morrow morn, all suddenly, 
The tents drop down, the honle renews its march. 
Dreary, and solitary as a church-yard 
The meadow and down-trodden seed-plot lie, 
And the year's harvest is gone utterly. 

Max. let the Emperor make peace, my father ! 
Most gladly would I give the blood-stained laurel 
For the first violet of the leatless spring. 
Flunked in those quiet fields where I have journeyed ! 

Oct. What ails thee I What so moves thee all at onoo 1 

Max. Peace have I ne'er beheld ? I have beheld it. 
From thence am I come hither : ! that sight. 
It glimmers still before me, like some landscape 
Left in the distance, — some deV\c%0M* \^wdAt;j.^\ 


My road conducted me through coimtries where 

The war has not yet reached. Life, life, my father — 

My venerahle father, life has charms 

Which tve have ne*er experienced. We have bicn 

But voyaging along its barren coasts, 

I^ike some poor ever-roaming horde of pirates, 

That, crowded in the rank and narrow ship, 

Plouse on the wild sea with wild usages, 

Nor know aught of the main land but the bays 

Where safeliest they may venture a thieves' landing. 

Whate'er in the inland dales the land conceals 

Of fair and exquisite, O ! nothing, nothing. 

Do we behold of that in our rude voyage. 

Oct. {attentive nnth an ajypearance of uneasiness.) And so 
your journey has revealed this to you ? 

Max^ 'Twas the first leisure of my life. O tell me, 
What is the meed and purpose of the toil, 
The painful toil, which robbed me of my youth, 
Left me a heart unsouled and solitar}', 
A spirit uninformed, unornamented. 
For the camp's stir and crowd and ceaseless larum, 
The neighing war-horse, the air-shattering trumpet, 
Tho unvaried, still returning hour of duty, 
Word of command, and exercise of arms — 
There's nothing here, there's nothing in all this 
T.> satisfy the heart, the gasping heart I 
Mere bustling nothingness, where the soul is not — 
This can not be the sole felicitv, 
These can not be man's best and only pleasures. 

Oct. Much hast thou learnt, my son, in this short journey. 

Max. ! day thrice lovely ! when at length the soldier 
Returns home into life ; when he becomes 
A fellow man among his fellow-men. 
The colors are unfurled, the cavalcade 
Marshals, and now the buzz is hushed, and hark! 
Now the soft peace-march beats, home, brothers, home I 
The caps and helmets are all garlanded 
With green boughs, the last plundering of the fields. 
The city gates fiy open of themselves, 
They need no longer tho petard to tear iVicm. 


The ramparts are all filled with men and women* 
"With peaceful men and women, that send onwards 
Kisses and welcomings upon the air. 
Which they make hreezy with afiectionate gestures. 
From all the towers rings out the meny peal, 
The joyous vespers of a bloody day. 

happy man, O fortunate ! for whom 

The well-known door, the faithful arms are open. 
The faithful tender arms with mute embracing. 

Qu€S. {apparently mtich affected.) ! that you should ^^peak 
Of such a distant, distant time, and not 
Of the to-morrow, not of this to-day. 

Max. {turning round to him quick and vehement.) Whem 
lies the fault but on you in Vienna ? 

1 will deal openly with you, duestenberg. 
Just now, as first I saw you standing here, 
(ril own it to you freely) indignation 
Crowded and pressed my inmost soul together. 
'Tis ye that hinder peace, ye I — and the warrior, 
It is the warrior that must force it from you. 

Ye fret the General's life out, blacken him, 

Hold him up as a rebel, and Heaven knows 

What else still worse, because he spares the Saxons, 

And tries to awaken confidence in the enemy ; 

Which yet's the only way to peace : for if 

War intermit not during war, Jiow then 

And whence can peace come ? Your own places fah on you \ 

Even as I love what's virtuous, hate I you. 

And here make I this vow, here pledge myself; 

My blood shall spurt out for this Wallenstein, 

And my heart drain ofi, drop by drop, ere ye 

Shall revel and dance jubilee o'er his ruin. [Exit. 

Scene V. — Qnestenbcr^, Octavio Piccolomini. 

Ques. Alas, alas ! and stands it so ? 

I Then in pressijig and intjniiit ni tones. 
What, friend ! and do we let him go away 
In this delusion — let him go away ? 
Not call him back immediately, not open 
His eyes upon the spot. ** 


Oct, {recovering himself out of a deep study.) He has now 
opened mine, 
And I Bee more than pleases me. 

Ques, What is it ? 

Oct. Curse on this journey ! 

Ques, But why so ? What is it? 

Oct. Come, come along, friend ! I must follow up 
The ominous track immediately. Mine eyes 
Are opened now, and I must use them. Come ! 

[Draws Qucstenbcrg on mth him, 

Ques. What now ? Where go you then ? 

Oct. To her herself. 

Ques. To 

Oct. (interrupting him and correcting himself) To the Duke. 
Come, let us go — Tis done, 'tis done, 
I see the net that is thrown over him. 

! he returns not to me as he went. 
Qu€S. Nay, hut explain yourself. 

Oct. And that I should not 

Foresee it, not prevent this journey ! Wherefore 
Did I keep it from him ? — You were in the right. 

1 should have warned him ! Now it is too late. 

Ques. But wJiaVs too late ? Bethink yourself, my friend, 
That you are talking ahsolutc riddles to me. 

Oct. {more collected.) Come I — to tlie Duke's. 'Tis clos^ upon 
the hour 
Which he appointed you for audience. Come I 
A curse, a threefold curse, upon this journey ! 

[He leads Questenbcrg of. 

Scene VI. — Cluinges to a spacious cliamber in tlte lumse of the 
Duke of Friedland. — Seruafits employed in putting the 
tables and chairs in order. During this enters Seni, like 
an old Italian doctor, in blacky arul clotJud sometcluit fan- 
tastically. He carries a white staff, tcith which he marks 
out tf^e quarters of the Jicaven. 

1»^. Set. Come — to it, lads, to it ! Make an end of it. I hear 
the sentry call out, *• Stand to your arms *." Tlic^j V\\V \*6^«^ 
in a, minute. 

numb.,' Seiiweu' 


Scene VII. — Wallenstein, Duchess, 

Wal. You went then through Vienna, were presented 
To the (iueen of Hungary ? 

Ditch. Yes, and to the Empress too. 

And by both Majesties were we admitted 
To kiss the hand. 

Wal. And how was it received, 

That I had sent for wife and daughter hither 
To the camp, in winter time ? 

Duch. I did even that 

Which you commissioned me to do. I told them. 
You had determined on our daughter's marriage, 
And wished, ere yet you went into the field. 
To show the elected husband his betrothed. 

'[Val. And did they guess the choice which I had made .' 

Duch. They only hoped and wished it may have fallen 
Upon no foreign nor yet Lutheran noble. 

Wal. And you — what do you wish, Elizabeth ? 

Duch. Your will, you know, was always mine. 

Wal. (after a pause.) Well then, 

And in all else, of what kind and complexion 
W'as your reception at the Court ? 

[The Duchess casts Jier eyes on tlu: ground nndrcnuiins ^i- 
Hide nothing from me. How were you received ? 

Duch. ! my dear lord, all is not what it was. 
A cankerworm, my lord, a canker worm 
Has stolen into the bud. 

Wal. Ay ! is it so ! 

What, they were lax ? they failed of the old respect ? 

Duch. Not of respect. No honors were omitted. 
No outward courtesy ; but in the place 
Of condescending, coniidential kindness. 
Familiar and endearing, there were given me 
Only these honors and that solemn courtesy. 
Ah I and the tenderness which was put on, 
It was the guise of pity, not of favor. 
No ! Albrecht'tf "wife, Duke Albrechl'B pfxuc^A^ vf\fe> 


Count Harrach's noble daughter, should not 
Not wholly 80 should she have been receiTed. 

Wal. Yes, yes ; they have ta'en offence. My latest c w id i i ct 
They railed at it, no doubt. 

Ihich. that they had ! 

I have been long accustomed to defend you. 
To heal and pacify distempered spirits. 
No ; no one railed at you. They wrapped them up, 
O Heaven I in such oppressive, solemn silence! — 
Here is no every-day misunderstanding, 
No transient pique, no cloud that passes over ; 
Something most luckless, most unhealable, 
Has taken place. The Q,ueen of Hungary 
Used formerly to call me her dear aunt, 
And ever at departure to embrace me — 

Wal. Noic she omitted it ? 

Ditch, {if 't ping aicaij her tairs after a pause.) She dtd em- 
brace me, 
But then first when I had already taken 
My fonnal leave, and when the door already 
Had closed upon me, then did she come out 
In haste, as she had suddenly bethought herself, 
And pressed me to her bosom, more with anguish 
Than tenderness. 

Wal. {seizes her hand soothinj^hj.) Nay, now collect yourselt 
And what of Eggeiiberg and Lichtenstein, 
And of our other friends there ? 

Duck, {slui kins her head.) I saw none. 

Wal. Th' Ambassador from Spain, who once was wont 
To plead so warmly for me ? — 

Duck. Silent, silent I 

Wal. These suns then are eclipsed for us. Hencefonn'ard 
Must we roll on, our fire, our own light. 

Duch. And were it — were it, my dear lord, in that 
Which moved about the Court in buzz and whisper. 
But in the country let itself be heard 
Aloud — in that which Father Lamormain 
In suudry hints and 

Wal. {eagerly ) Lamormain ! what said he ? 

Duch. That vou'ro accwseOi o^ \\«lnv\\^ <5L^\\w^^>i 


O'erstepped the powers intrusted to you, charged 

With traitorous contempt of th* Emperor 

And his supreme behests. The proud Bavarian, 

He and the Spaniards stand up your accusers — 

That there's a storm collecting over you 

Of iar more fearful menace than that former one 

Which whirled you headlong down at Regenspurg. 

And people talk, said he, of Ah ! — 

[Stifling eoUreme emotion. 

Wal. Proceed ! 

Duch. I can not utter it ! 

Wal. Proceed ! 

Duch, They talk 

Will Well! 

Dtich. Of a second 

[ Catches her voice and Iiesitates, 

Wal. Second 

Duch. More disgraceful 

Wal. Talk they ? 

[Strides across the room in vehement agitation. 
! they force, they thrust me 
^ith violence, against my own will, onward ! 

Duch. {presses near to him, in entreaty.) ! if there yet be 
time, my husband ! if 
By giving way, and by submission, this 
Can be averted — my dear lord, give way ! 
Win down your proud heart to it ! Tell that heart, 
It is your sovereign lord, your Emperor 
Before whom you retreat. ! let no longer 
Low tricking malice blacken your good meaning 
With abhorred venomous glosses. Stand you up 
Shielded and helmed and weaponed with the truth, 
And drive before you into uttermost shame 
These slanderous liars ! Few firm friends have we— - 
You know it ! — the swifl growth of our good fortune 
It hath but set us up, a mark for hatred. 
What are we, if the sovereign's grace and favor 
t9tand not before us ? 


Scene YIII. — the Countess Tertsky, leading in her hamu 
Uie Princess Thelda, richly adorned tciih briUiants. CcmnL 
ess, Thekla, Wallenitein, Duchess. 

Coun, How, sister ? What ! already upoQ basineas ! 

[Observing tfie countenance of the Duchess. 

And business of no pleasing kind I see, 
Ere he has gladdened at his child. The fir9t 
Moment belongs to joy. Here, Friedland ! father ! 
This is thy daughter. 

[ Thekla approaches icith a shy and timid air, and bend* 
herself as about to kiss his hand. He receives lier in 
his arms, and remains standing for some time lost iji 
thefreling ofJier presence. 
Wal. Yes ! pure and lovely hath hope risen on nie : 
I take her as the pledge of greater fortune. 

Ditch. 'Twas but a little child when you departed 
To raise up that great army for the Emperor : 
And after, at the close of the campaign, 
AVhcn you returned home out of Pomerania, 
Your daughter was already in the convent. 
Wherein she has remained till now. 

Wai. The while 

We in the field here gave our cares and toils 
To make her great, and fight her a free way 
To the loftiest earthly good ; lo I mother Nature 
Within the peaceful silent convent walls 
Has done her part, and out of her free grace 
Hath she bestowed on the beloved child 
The godlike ; and now leads her thus adorned 
To meet her splendid fortune, and my hope. 

Duck, {to Thekla.) Thou would&t not have recognized thj 
Wouldst thou, my chil<l ? She counted scarce eight yeani. 
When last she saw your face 

Thek. ves. ves, mother I 

At the first glance I — My father is not altered 
The form that stands before me, falsifies 
No feature of the image that hath livtd 
80 long within me ! 


Wal. The voice of my child ! 

[ Then after a pause, 
I was indignant at my destiny 
That it denied me a man-child, to be 
Heir of my name and of my prosperous fortune, 
And re-illume my soon extinguished being, 
In a proud line of princes. 
1 wronged my destiny. Here upon this head 
So lovely in its maiden bloom will I 
Let fall the garland of a life of war, 
Nor deem it lost, if only I can wreathe it 
Transmitted to a regal ornament. 
Around these beauteous brows. 

[He clasps her in his arms, as I*iccolofnint enters. 

Scene IX. — Enter Max. Piccolomim, and some time ajtcr 
Count Tertsky, the otJiers remaining as before. 

Coun. There comes the Paladin who protected us. 

Wal. Max. ! Welcome, ever welcome ! Always wert thou 
The morning star of my best joys ! 

Max. My General 

Wal. 'Till now it was the Emperor who rewarded the«, 
I but the instrument. This day thou hast bound 
The father to thee, Max. I the fortunate father. 
And this debt Friedland's self must pay. 

Max. My prince I 

You made no common hurry to transfer it. 
I come with shame : yea, not without a pang ! 
For scarce have I arrived here, scarce delivered 
The mother and the daughter to your arms, 
But there is brought to me from your equerry 
A splendid richly-plated hunting-dress, 

So to remunerate mo for my troubles 

Yes, yes, remunerate me ! Since a trouble 
ft must be, a mere office, not a favor 
Which I leaped forward to receive, and which 
I came already with full heart to thank you for. 
No ! 'twas not so intended, that my business 
Should be my highest best good fortune ! 




open hurryingttf. 
Coin, (to Max.) Remanerate your tmnUa I Ftvlwjoy 
He nukes you recompeiue. 'Tb not anfittiiig 
For you. Count Picootomini, to feel 
So tenderly — my brather it bewwnw 
To show UmMlf forever great and princely. 

T%ek. Then I too muBt faaTe Bcraplea of Itia lore : 
For his mnnificent band* did omainent me 
Bre yet the father's heart had spoken to me. 

JICiz. Yea ; 'tis his nature erer to he giving. 
And making happy. 

[He grasps the hand of the Duchett mtk tliU incwan^ 

How my heart ponn ont 
Its all of thanks to him : ! how I seem 
To ntler all tfaioga in the dear nanw Friedland. 
While I shall live, so long will I remain 
The captive of this name : in it shall bloom 
My every fortune, every lovely hope. 
Inextricably as in some mngic ring 
In this name hath my destiny charm-bound me ! 

Court, (tpho during this lime has been anximisiy tmtckinf 
the Duke, arul remarks t/ial he is lost in thnvg}u orer the let- 
ters.) &Iy brother wishes us to leave him. Come. 

Wal. {t)ir?ts himself round quick, collects himself, and tpeakt 
vrtth cheerfulness to the Duchess.) Ooce more I bid thee wel- 
come to the camp, 
Then art the hostess of this court. You, Max.. 
Will now again administer your old office. 
While we perform the sovereign's business here 

[Max. Piccolomini offers the Duchess his arm, the Countta 
accompanies the Princess. 
Ter. {calling after him.) Max., we depend on seeing yoa al 
the meeting. 

Scene Ti—WalUnslein, Count Tcrlsky. 
Wal. (in deep thought to himself.) She hath .seen all tbiogi 
as they are— It is so, 
Aad squares coiapleleVf -wilb tiv; o>.\mi wiVvevi. 


They have determined finally in Vienna, 

Have given me my successor already ; 

It is the King of Hungary, Fenlinand, 

The Emperor's delicate son I he's now their savior, 

He's the new star that*8 rising now I Of us 

They think themselves already fairly rid, 

And as we were deceased, the heir already 

Is entering on possession — Therefore — ilespalch I 

[As lie turns round he observes Tcrts/ci/, and gives Him a 
Count Altringer will have himself excused, 
And Galas too — I like not this I 

Ter. And if 

Thou loitcrest longer, all will fall away, 
One following the other. 

Wal. Altringer 

Is master of the Tyrole passes. I must forthwith 
Send some one to him, that he let not in 
The Spaniards on rnc from the Milanese. 

Well, and the old Scsin, that ancient trader 

In contraband negotiations, lie 

Has shown himself again of late. What brings he 

From the Count Thur ? 

Ter. The Count communicates. 

He has found out the Swedish chancellor 
At Halberstadt, where the convention's held, 
Who says, you've tired him out, and that he'll have 
No further dealings with you. 

Wid. And why so ? 

Ter. He says, you arc never in earnest in your speeches, 
That you decoy the Swede.? — to make fools of them. 
Will league yourself with Saxony against them. 
And at last make yourself a riddance of them 
With a paltry sum of money. 

W(d. So then, doubtless, 

Yes, doubtless, this same modest Swede expects 
That I shall yield him some fair German tract 
For his prey and booty, that ourselves at last 
On our own soil and native territory, 
M117 he no huger our own iords and maHteTftl 

fiOtt THE ricooLOMiin: 

Aa excuUeut scheme '. 2f o .' no '. They murt be ofl^ 
OIT, off', away ! ire want no Buch neighbon. 

Ter. Xay, yield them up that dot, that speck of UnA— 
It goes not trom your jwrtion. If you win 
The game, ivhal matlers it to you who pays it 7 

ffal. OiTwiih Ihcm. oir! Thou undeisUnd'st not tfau. 
Xurci Ehall it he eslJ of me, I parcelled 
iUy native land away, digiiicmbered Germany, 
Betrayed it to a lureigner, in order 
To come with stealthy tread, and filch away 
My own share of the plunder — Xever ! never ! — 
So foreign power shall strike root in the empire. 
And least of all, these Goths, these hunger- woItcb, 
AVho tend such envious, hot and greedy glanceii 
T' wards the rich bJe*siiigs of our German lands I 
I'll have their uiil to east and draw my nets, 
i!ut not a Miigle li«h uf :ill the draught 
Shall Ihey come in \'«i. 

Tcr. ' Yon will deal, however. 

More lairly with the KJaxons'? They lose patience 
While you ^hiti ground and innki.' ^ many cnrvos. 
r>ay, to what purgxise all these masks ! Your friends 
Are plunged in ilouhls. balDihl and led astray in yon. 
There's Uxeustein. there's Arnheiiu — neither know^ 
What he shonld think of your procrasliuatious. 
And in the end I prove the liar ; all 
Paf-'e? through ine, I have nut even yonr hand -wri tin l'. 

It'll/. 1 H^jr/ give my hand-writing : ihou knowest it. 

Tit. But how can it be kiioi'-ii thai yon'ru in earnest. 
If the act follows not n]Kiii the wordf 
You must yourself acknowk-d<!.>. that in all 
Y'oiir intercourses hitherto wiili ilie enemy 
You mii;ht have duiue wilh Palely ail you have done. 
Had yon meant nothing Inrlher than to guil him 
V'or the Emiiernr's service. 

ICh/. yn/lrr u jtaiisr ilaiin^ triiirli lie looks narrotriv 
Tcrf^l:;/) And from whence dost liiou know 
That I'm no' gnllinz him for the Kmperors service? 
Whence knowest thou that Im not gulling all of you ? 
Dost thou know me so well t When made 1 thev 


The intendant of my secret purposes? 

I am not conscious that I ever opened 

My inmost thoughts to thee. The Emperor, it is true, 

Hath dealt with me amiss ; and if I would, 

I could repay him with usurious interest 

For the evil he liath done me. It delisfhts me 

To know my power ; but whether I shall use it, 

Of that, I should have thought that thou couldst speak 

No wiser than thy fellows. 

Ter. So hast thou always played thy game with ns. 

[Enter llio. 

Scene XI. — Illo, Wallejistciji, Tertsky, 

Wal. How statid affairs without ? Are they prepared ? 

lllo. You'll find them in the very mood you wish. 
They know about the Emperor's requisitions, 
And are tumultuous. 

Wal. How hath Isolan 

declared himself? 

lUo. He's yours, both soul and body, 

Since you built up a^ain his Faro-bank. 

Wal. And which way doth Kolatto bend ? Hast thou 
Made sure of Tiefenbach and Deodate ? 

lllo. What Piccolomini does, that they do too. 

Wal. You mean then I may venture somewhat with them? 

lUo. — If you arc assured of the Piccolomini. 

Wal. Not more assured of mine own self 

Tcr. And vet 

I would you trusted not so much to Octavio, 
The fox ! 

Wal. Thou teachest me to know my man ? 

Sixteen campaigns I have made with that old warrior. 
Besides, I have his horoscope. 
We both are born beneath like stars — in short 

[ With an air of mystery. 
To this belongs its own particular aspect. 
If therefore thou canst warrant me the rest 

lUo. There is among them all but this one voice, 
You must not lay down the command. I hear 
They mean to send a deputation to you. 


Wat- If I'm ia aught to bind myidf to tlmn. 

They too miut bind themselves to me. 

lOo. or ooons. 

Wal. Their words of honor thaj must give, their-oatt^ 
Give them in writing to me, promiNog 
Devotion to my tervice vncoiiditiotial. 

Ilia. Why not ? 

Ter. Devotion utuonditiomai ? 
The exception of their duties tow&tds AnstiiA 
They'll olway* place among the premises. 
With this reserve 

Wal. (ihaking ftii head.) AW unamditwual .' 
Ko premisses, no reserves. 

2Uo. A thought has stmck me. 

Does not Count Tertsky give us a set banquet 
This evening ? 

Ter. Yes ; and all the Generals 

Have been iuviteJ. 

Illo. (to WallemJcin) Say, will you here fullj 
Commissiou me to uec my own discrelion ? 
I'll gain fur you ihc Uciierals' words of honor, 
Even as you wish. 

Wal. Gain mc their signatures I 

How you come by them, that is your concern. 

Illo. And if I bring it to you, black on white. 
That aU the leaders who are present here 
Give themselves up lo you, without condition ; 
Say, will you then — llicn will you show youraelT 
In earnest, and with some decisive action 
Make trial of your luck I 

Wal. The signatures I 

Gaiu me the signatures. 

Illo. Seize, seize the hour 

Ere it slips from you t>e]cIom comes the moment 
I[i life, which is indeed sublime and weighty. 
To make a great decision possible, 
'. many thingn, all transient anil all rapid. 
Must meet at once : and, haply, they thtis met 
May by that confluence be enforced lo p;iuse 
Time long enough for wisdom, though too short. 


Far, far too short a time for doubt and scruple ! 

This is that moment. See, our army chieftains, 

Our best, our noblest, are assembled around you, 

Their kinglike leader I On your nod they wait. 

The single threads, which here your prosperous fortune 

Hath woven together in one potent web 

Instinct with destiny, let them not 

Unravel of themselves. If you permit 

These chiefs to separate, so unanimous 

Bring you them not a second time togellier. 

'Tis the high tide that heaves the stranded ship. 

And every individual's spirit waxes 

In the great stream of multitudes. Behold 

They arf* still here, here still ! But soon the wai 

Bursts them once more asunder, and in small 

Particular anxieties and interests 

Scatters their spirit, and the sympathy 

Of each man with the whole. He, Avho to-day 

Forgets himself, forced onward Avith the stream, 

Will become sober, seeing but himself, 

Feel only his own weakness, and with speed 

Will face about, and march on iu the old 

High road of duty, the old broad-trodden road, 

And seek but to make slielter in good plight. 

Wal. The time is not yet come. 

Ter. So you say always, 

But when will it be time ? 

Wal. When I shall say it. 

Illo. You'll wait upon the stars, and on their hours, 
Till the earthly hour escapes you. 0, believe me. 
In your own bosom are your destiny's stars. 
Confidence in yourself, prompt resolution. 
This is your Venus I and the sole malignant, 
Thaonly one that harmeth you is doubt. 

Wal, Thou speakest as thou understand'st. How oft 
And many a time Tve told thee, Jupiter, 
That lustrous god, was setting at thy birth. 
Thy visual power subdues no mysteries ; 
Mole-eyed, thou may'st but burrow in the earth, 
Blind as that subterrestrial, who with wan 

Builds iteelf up . on ^,^j 

Hove „p „,„, j„;_,^^ ^^^^ 1^ ' 
Tlje drdfs ii, u,,. ,,,^,.,^,^ 
The central sm, with eve 
™ ■""'''"'■ 8'«Jihil,l„n 
[J/c lailis acros3 / 

rh.d.,„d „,■,,,„_, 

ui sowing and of han-tst 

"" '■"«■"■' -oof.,;, 

,"'?''•'' "'l'eda,Ha„j„, 
™«iit» ,t bohooves ,-. ,„ . 

J" "■•tch the .t.„, „,„,;,; 

A"d trace „„h ,ea„.|,i„. e„ 

Wi-bcheencn.j.f ° ' 

™.ii not. maljgiiant, 

1^0 yon your part. A..-,., i 


S.ENE XII. — Wallensteifiy Tertsky, Illo, — To them enter QueS' 
f e fiber g, Octavio, and Max. Piccolomini, Butler, Isolani, 
MaradaSj and three other Generals. IVallenstein tnotiom 
Questenher^, who in consequence takes tlie cliair directly op 
}iosite to him ; the others follow, airanging themselves accord 
ing to tlieir ranrz. 2'here reigns a momentary silence. 

Wal I have understood, 'tis true, the sum and import 
Of youi instructions, duestenberg ; have weighed them, 
And Ibrmed my final, absolute resolve ; 
Yet it seems fitting, that the generals 
Should hear the will of the Emperor from your mouth. 
jMay't please you, then, to open your eonimission 
Before these noble chieilains. 

Qucs. I am ready 

To obey you ; but will first entreat your Highness, 
And nil these noble chieftains, to consider. 
The imperial dignity aud sovereign right 
Speaks i'rom my mouth, and not my own presumption. 

^V(U. We excuse all preface. 

Ques. When his Majesty 

The Emperor to his courageous armies 
Presented in the person of Duke Friedland 
A most experienced and renowned commander, 
He did it in glad hope and confidence 
To give thereby to the fortune of the war 
A rapid and ausi)icious change. The onset 
Was favorable to his royal wishes. 
Bohemia was delivered from the Saxons, 
The Swede's career of conquest cheeked ! These laud» 
Bejran to draw breath freelv, as Duke Friedland 
From all the streams of Germany longed hither 
The scattered armies of the enemy, 
Hither invoked as round one magic circle 
The Rhinegrave, Bernhard, Banner, Oxenstirn, 
Yea, and that never-conquered King himself; 
Here, finally, before the eye of Niirnberg, 
The fearful game of battle to decide. 

Will May't please you to the point. 

Ques In Niiniber^g's camp the S\vevV\^\\ tuow^tc\v\«?^ 


His fiume — in Liitxen'i plaina hU life. Bat who 

8tood Dot aatounded, vhen viclorioiu Fnedlmnd 

After this day of triiiroph, ihU proud day, 

Uuched towaid Bohemia with the apeod of fligbt, 

Aod vanished from the theatre of war ; 

While the young Weimar faera forced hii way 

Into Franconia, to the Danuhi, like 

Some delving winter stream, which, where it nuhes. 

Mokes its own channel ; with such Buddca ipeed 

He marched, and now at once Tore Hegemputg 

Stood to the affnght of all good Catholic Chriatiaoa. 

Then did Bavaria's wetl-deservit^ Prince 

Entreat swift aidance in his extreme need ; 

The Emperor sendu seven honeroen to Duke Friedland, 

Seven horsemen-courion tend* he with the entreaty : 

He superadds his own, and supplicates 

\Vfaere as the sovereign lord he can command 

In vain his Eupplication ! Al this moment 

The Duke hcare unly his old hate and grudge, 

Uarters the general good to grutity 

Private revenge — and so fall^ Regenspurg. 

JVal. Max., to what pericid of the war alludes ho ? 
ily recollection i'a'tlt me liejc. 

Max- He means 

When we were in Silesia. 

jyaL Ay ! Is Jt so ! 

But w hat liod we lo do there .' 

Mii.r. To beat out 

The Suedes acid i^axons from the provin<v. 

Wai. True, 

In that description which the minister gave 
I seemed to have forgotten the whole war. 
(To Qiiesicnber^.) Well, but proceed a little. 

Ques. Yes ! at len^h 

Beside the river Oder did the Duke 
A«sert his ancient fame. Upon the fields 
Of Stciuau did the tSwedes lay down llieir arms. 
Subdued without a blow. Aud here, with others. 
The rightcousnesB of Heaven to his avenger 
Dehvend that long-pracVwe<i aViirex-Q? 


Of inaurrection, that curae-laden torch 
And kindlur o{ this war, Matthias ThuT. 
Dut ho had fallen into maj^naiiimoua hands ; 
Instead of puiiishincut he found reward, 
And with rich presents <Ii(l the Duke dismiu 
The arch-foe of his Emperor, 

Will, {laughs.) I know, 

know you had already in Vienna 
Your windo^^'■ and balivtnies all forestalled 
To see him on the executioner's cart. 
I might have lost the battle, lost it too 
Witli infamy, and still retained your graces— 
But, to havo cheated iheni of a spectacle. 
Oh ! t/tat the good tbiks of Vienna never, 
Ko, never can forgive me. 

Qua. So Silesia 

Was freed, and all things loudly called the Duk« 
Into Bavaria, now pressed hard on all sides. 
And he did put hie troops in motion : slowly, 
(luiie at his ease, and by the longest road 
He traverses Bohemia ; but ere ever 
He hath once seen the enemy, faces round, 
Creaks up the march, and takes to winter quarteia. 

Wal. The troops were pitiably destitute 
Of every necCHsary. every comfort. 
The winter came- What thinks his Majesty 
His troops are made ol'l Arii't we men i subjected 
Like other men to wet and cold, and all 
The circumstances of necessity ? 
U miserable lot of tho poor soldier ! 
Wherever he conies in, all fleo before him, 
And when he «:oes away, the general curse 
yellows him on hia route. All must be seized, 
Nothing is given him. And compelled to seize 
I'rorn every man, he's every man's abhorrence. 
Heliold, hero stand my Generak KaralTa ! 
ConnlDeodiilc! Butler I Tell this man 
Miiw lonp ihe soldiers' pay ia in arrears. 

Jiut. Already a full year. 

ff'/t/. And 'tis the >i\i« 

81S THE FIOOOLOltlin: 

That CMiBtitutea tb« hiteling's naina uid dutiea. 
The MldioT'i jiay U the Kidier'i coeenamt.* 

Qutt. Ah t thU i( & &r other tone fnnn tha^ 
la which the Duke epolte eight, nine yean ago. 

Wtd. Yes ! 'tis my bnll, I kaow it : I myaoh 
Save spoilt the Emperor hj indulging him- 
Nine yean ago, during the J)ani>h war, 
[ raited hitn up a force, a mif^ty force, 
Por^ or fifty thousand men, that cost him 
Of bis own pune no doit Through Saxony 
The fury goddess of the war marched on. 
E'en to the eurf-rocks of the Baltic, bearing 
The terron of his name. That was a time ! 
In the whole Imperial realm no name like mine 
Honored with festival and celebration — 
And Albrccht Wallenstein, it was the title 
Of the third jewel in his cmwn ! 
But at the Diet, when the Princes met 
At Regeiisimr^. there, there the whole hroke out. 
There 'twas laid open, therL- it was made known 
Out of what money-bag I had paid the host. 
And what was now my thank, what had I now 
That 1, a faithful servant of the sovereign, 
Had loaded on my»?lf the people's curses. 
And let the Princes of the empire pay 
The expenses of this war, that aimrandizes 
The Emperor alone — What thanks had 1 '. 
What ? I was ollered up to their complainU. 
Dismissed, dc^aded ! 

Qucs. But your Hi^huoes knows 

What Utile freedom he posseseeU of action 
In that disostrons diet. 

* Tbt original is not traoBlatsble into Eiij;lisli ; 

Und Biin «o/«l 

iiat deal widatttt vrrtlca. darnscU beitst « 
U nuf^t p«i*hspa liave beeo thus rendered : 

" And that for vhich be sold bis services, 
Tlie saUier intisl itonve." 
Bat a Use or doublfal etynwAngj « nm toot* vVaa ». a*a.>i*. 


Wul. Death and hell ! 

/ had that which could have procured him freedom. 
No ! Since 'twas proved so inauspicious to mo 
To serve the Emperor at the empire's cost, 
I have heen taught far other trains of thinking 
or the empire, and the diet of the empire. 
From the Emperor, doubtless, I received this staff, 
But now I hold it as the empire's general — 
For the common weal, the universal interest. 
And no more for that one man's aggrandizement ! 
But to the point, "^^'hat is it that's desired of me ? 

Qucs. First, his imperial Majesty hath willed 
That without pretexts of delay the army 
Evacuate Bohemia. 

Wal. In this season ? 

And to what quarter, wills the Emperor, 
That we direct our course ? 

Ques. To the enemy. 

His Majesty resolves, that Rcgcnspurg 
Be purified from the enemy, cro Easter, 
That Luth'ranism may be no longer preached 
In that cathedral, nor heretical 
Defilement desecrate the celebration 
Of that pure festival. 

Wal. My generals. 

Can this be realized ? 

Illo. 'Tis not possible. 

lint. It can't be realized. 
Qucfi. The Emperor 

Already hath commanded colonel SSuys 
To advance toward Bavaria I 

Wal AVhat did Suys ? 

Qttcii. That which his duty prompted. He advanced I 
Wal. What ? he advanced I And I, his general. 
Had given him orders, peremptory orders, 
Not to desert his station ! Stands it thus 
With my authority ? Is this th' obedience 
Due to my office, which being thrown aside 
No war can be conducted ? Chieftains, &^QlVl\ 
You be thejudgef, generals I What (\eaeTve» 

Thftt officer, who of his oath tiBgleBtfiil 
b guil^ of contempt of oiden 1 

Bto. {raising his wntx, at all but lUo had rtmaJMed aOmt, 

and seemingly xrupitloiu.) De*Ui. 

Wal. Count Piccolomini ! wh&t hu he dcMrvcd T 

Max, Pic. {after a ttmg patue.) AccordiDg to ths tetlcr of Am 

lio. Death. 

But. Death, bj the laws of war. 

[Quntenberg rixsffmn his teat, WaUetutan faUowt ; m& 
the rest rite. 

Wat. To this the law condemiu him, and not I. 
And if I ahow him favoi, 'twill ariae 
From the rev'ience that I owe my Emperor. 

Ques. If so, I can say nothing further — here.' 

IVal. I accepted the command but on conditioo*! 
And this the first, that to the diminution 
Of my authority no human being. 
Not even the Emperor's self, should be entitled 
To do aught, or to say aught, with the anuy. 
If 1 stand warranter of the event. 
Placing my honor and my head in pledge, 
Needs must I have full mastery in all 
The means thereto. What rendered thus Gustavua 
Beaistless, and unconquere'l upon earth ? 
This — that ho was the monarch in his army ! 
A monarch, one who is indeed a monarch. 
Was never yet subdued but by bis equal. 
But to tlic point ! The best is yet to come. 
Attend now, generals ! 

Qufs. The Prince Carilinal 

Begins his route at the approach of spring 
From the Milanese ; aud leads a Spanish army 
Through Germany into the Kelherlands. 
That he may march secure and unimpeded, 
'Tis th' Emperor's will you grant him a clelaizhment 
t>f eight horse-regiments from the army here. 

Wal. Ye«, yes ! I understaad ', — Eight ragiments ! Well, 
Right well roncerted, fatbet Iatoottowxi'. 


Eight thousand horso ! Yes, yes ! 'Tis as it should be I 
I see it coining. 

Qu^s. There is nothing coming. 
All stands in front : the counsel of state-prudence, 
The dictate of necessity ! 

WcU. What then ? 

What, my Lord Envoy ? May I not not be sufiereU 
To understand that folks arc tired of seeing 
The sword's hilt in my grasp : and that your court 
iSuatch eagerly at this pretence, and use 
The Spanish title, to drain off my ibrces. 
To lead into the empire a new army 
Uiisubjected to my coutrol. To throw me 
Plumply aside, — I am still too powerful for you 
To venture that. My stipulation runs. 
That all the Imperial forces shall obey me 
Where'er the German is the native language. 
Of Spanish troops and of Prince Cardinals 
That take their route, as visitors, through the empire, 
There stands no syllable in my stipulation. 
No syllable ! And so the politic court 
Steals in a-tiptoe, and creeps round behind it , 
First makes me weaker, then to be dispensed with. 
Till it dares strike at length a bolder blow 
And make short work with me. 
What need of all these crooked ways, Lord Envoy I 
Straight-forward, man ! His compact with me pinches 
The Emperor. He would that I moved off! — 
Well I — 1 will gratify him I 

[Here there commences an agitation among the Genet alt 
tvhich increases continually. 
It grieves me for my noble officers' sakes ! 
I see not yet, by what means they will come at 
The moneys they have advanced, or how obtain 
The recompense their services demand. 
Still a new leader brings new claimants forward, 
And prior merit superannuates quickly. 
There serve here many foreigners in th* army. 
And were the man in all else brave and gallaat, 
1 WBB not wont to make nice scrutlay 


AfU?r his pedigree or calechiMn. 

I'his will be otherwise, i' the time to come. 

Well — me no longer il concerns. [Be seats himsiif. 

Max. Pic. Forbid it, Heaven, that it should come to this ! 
Our troops will swell in ilreadful fermentatioD — 
The Emperor is abusei) — it can not be. 

Iso. It can not be ; all goes to instant wreck. 

Wal. Thou hast said truly, faithful Isolani I 
What ice with toil and foresight have built up, 
Will go to wreck — all go to instant wreck. 
What then ? another chiellain ie soon found. 
Another army likewise (who dares doubt it ?) 
Will flock from all sides to the Emperor 
At the first beat of his recruiting drum. 

[During this xpercli, Isolani, Terlsky. Illo, ami Maradat 
talk confusedly icilh great agitation. 

M'lx. I'ic. {busilij iiml puss.ionalchj soing fromonc toanatiter. 
S(Ki/kh's them.) Hear, my commundcrl Hear me, generals' 
Le! me conjure vou, Duke! Determine nothing. 
Till we h;ive met and ^e^>^c^M;nlcll to yon 
Our joint roinimsi ranees — Xay, eahner I Friends I 
I hope all may be yet set right again. 

Tcf. Away ! lei us away I in ih' antechamber 
Find wc the others. [they go 

But. {to Questenberg.) li" good counsel gain 
Dne audience from your wistlom. my I>ord Envoy ! 
Yon will he cautious how you show yourself 
III public for some hours to cumi? — or hardly 
Will that gold key prelect you from maltreatment. 

\C'iimiiii>lii»rs heiiril front iciiliout. 

Wal. A salutary counwl Thou. Oclavio ! 

Wilt answer for the safely of our irucst. 

rarewell, Von Uuestenberg I [ Qui-sleiiberg is about to spati. 

iVol one wonl more of Inat ileiesleii subject 1 
You have performed yonr duly— We know how 
To separate the olliee from Ihc man. 

[As Qucitcnberg: is ^oiiii: ojj'ivilh Cktnvio. Goelz. Tiet'ei*- 
back. Kolatto, press in; several ofltcr Genvrah J\d 
loicin'! ihem. 


(roefz. Where's he who means to rob us of our greneral ? 
Tief. {at the same time.) What are wc forced to hear ? That 

thou wilt leave us ? 
Kol. (at the same time.) We will live with thee, we will die 

with thee. 
Wal. (pointing to Hio.) There I the Field-Marshal knows 

our will. [Exit, 

[ While all are going off the stage, the curtain drops. 


Scene I. — A small Chamber. 

Illo and Tertsky. 

Ter. Now for this evening's business I How intend you 
To manage with the generals at the banquet ? 

Illo. Attend I ' We frame a formal declaration 
Wherein we to the Duke consign ourselves 
Collectively, to be and to remain 
llis both with life and limb, and not to spare 
The last drop of our blood for him, provided 
So doing we infringe no oath nor duty. 
We may be under to the Einp'ror. — Mark I 
This reservation we expressly make 
I:i a particular clanse, and save the conscience. 
Now hear ! This formula so framed and worded 
Will be presented to them for jHjrnsal 
Belore the banquet. No one will iind in it 
Cause of oflence or scruple. Hear now further ! 
After the feast, when now the vap'ring wine 
Opens the heart, and shuts the eyes, we let 
A counterfeited paper, in the which 
This one particular clause has been left out, 
< TO round for signatures. 

Ter. How ? think you then 

That they'll believe themselves bound by an oath, 
Which we had tricked them into by a juggle ? 

Illo. We shall have caught and caf^cd l\veTCv\ \jftN. >\\^^x^ S^«^ 
Beat their win fits bare against the "w'lrea, and xave 


Loud H they may against owe treaohsiy, 
M conrt ifaeir aignaturea will be believed 
Far more than their moat holy affinnatioDi. 
Traiton they are, and ntuit be ; therdbre iriady 
Wilt make a virtue of necenity. 

Ter. Well, well, it ahall content me ; let bat Knnetliii^ 
Be done, let only some deciaiTO blow 
Set OM in motion. 

nio. Besides, 'tii of subordinate importance 
How, or bow far, wb may thereby propel 
The generals. 'Tis enough that we persuade 
The Duke, that they are hu— Let him but act 
In bia determined mood, as if he had them, 
And he Kill have them. Where he plangea in, 
tie makes a whirlpool, and all stream down to it> 

Ter. HiB policy is such a labyriuth. 
That many a time when I have thought mj'self 
Close at his side, he's gone at once and left rne 
Ignorant of the ground where I was etanding. 
He lends the enemy his ear, permits me 
To write to them, to Arnheim ; to iSesina 
Himself comes forward bUnk and midiiiguiscd ; 
Talks with us by the hour about his plana, 
And when I think I have him^-olf at once — 
He has slipped from me, and appears as if 
He had no scheme, but to retain his place. 

Hlo. He give up his old plans ! I'll tell you, friend 1 
His soul is occupied with nothing else. 
Even in his sleep — They are his thoughls, his dreams, 
Tliat day by day he questions for this purpose 
The motions of the planets — 

Ter. Ay ! you know 

This night, that is now coming, he with Seni 
Shuts himself up Jn the BStrotogical tower 
Tj make joint observations — for I hear, 
It is to be a night of weight and crisis ; 
And something great, and of long expectation, 
la to make its procession in the heaven. 

JUo. CSome ! be we bald and make despatch. The wdA 
la tbi» next day or two mnrt ttov-cfe wii w"« 


More than it has for years. And let but only 

Things first turn up auspicious here below — 

Mark what I say — the right stars too will show themselvea. 

Corne, to the generals. All is in the glow, 

And must be beaten ^hile 'tis malleable. 

Ter. Do you go thither, lUo. I must stay 
And wait here for the Countess Tertsky. Know, 
That we too are not idle. Break one string, 
A second is in readiness. 

Ulo. Yes! Yes! 

I saw your lady smile with such sly meaning. 
What's in the wind ? 

Ter. A secret. Hush I she comes. \Exit Ulo, 

8ri:NE II. — ( The Countess steps out from a closet.) Count and 

Countess Tertsky. 

Ter. Well — is she coming ? — I can keep him back 
No longer. 

Cofui. She will be there instantly. 
You only send him. 

Ter, I am not quite certain 

I must confess it, Countess, whether or not 
We are earning the Duke's thanks hereby. You know, 
No ray has broken from him on this jmint. 
You have o'erruled me, and yourself know best. 
How far you dare proceed. 

Coun. I take it on me. 

[ Talking to herself, while site is advancing. 
Here's no need of full powers and commissions — 
My cloudy Duke I we luiderstand each other — 
And without words. What, could I not unriddle. 
Wherefore the daughter should be sent for hither, 
W^hy first he, and no other, should be chosen 
To fetch her hither! This i»ii.'iiii of betrothing her 

To a bridegroom,* whom no one knows — No! no I 

This may blind others ! I see through thee, Brother ! 

• In Germany, after honorable addresses have lKH*n paitl iwvd ^viw^wiS^'^ 
accepted, the lovers are called Bride and litu\eg;roota, ^xwi >\\vv>a^^ ^^a^ 
truu-riage ahould not take place till years aflet'war^ 


Bnt it beieemt thee not. to draw a card 
At Bnch A ^me. Not yet ! — It all Temuni 

Hutely delivered up to my finemng 

Well — thou shalt not hare been deoetviBd, Dulio FriMlUnd ! 
Id her who i« thy sister. 

Servant, (enten.) The oommanden ! 

Ter. {to the Countess.) Take eare you heat his fmaef amd 
aflectioni — 
Possess him with a reverie, and send him. 
Absent and dreaming. Id the haniuet ; that 
He may not boggle at the signature. 

Coutt. Take you care or your guests ! — Go, send him hilhet. 

7Vr. All rests upon his nndeniguing. 

Coitn. {interrupting him.) Go to your guests '. Go 

lUo. {comes back.) Where art staying, Tertsky ? 
The hoilBC is full, and all expecling you. 

Ter. Instantly! luetatitly ! {To l)ie Counles^.) And let him 
Stay here too long. It might awake suspicion 
In the old roan 

floun. A truce with your precautions! 

[ExeatU Tertskij and llio. 

ScRN'E III. — Countess, Max. Piccaiomini. 

Max. {perpiitg iit on the stage, slyly) Aunt Tertsky \ may I 

{Advances lo the middle of the stage, and looks around him 
with uneasiness. 

She's not here ! 
Where is she ? 

Coun. Look but somewhat narrowly 

In yonder comer, left perhaps she lie 
Concealed behind that screen. 

JIfrtj;. Tnere lie her gloves ! 

[Sna!ches at tJiem, but the Countess fakes them hers^J". 
You unkind lady ! You refuse mo this — 
You make it an amusement to lomient me. 
Coun. And thia the thaulu >jDa ^ie nt« (br mv loiuble ? 
Max. 0, if you felt the opptwaina ».\ m^ \xnA.\ 


Since we*ve been here, so to constrain myself — 
With such poor stealth to hazard words and glances — 
These, these are not my habits I 

Coun. You have still 

Many new habits to acquire, young friend I 
But on this proof of your obedient temper 
I must continue to insist ; and only 
Un this condition can I play the agent 
For your concerns. 

Max. But wherefore comes she not ? 

W'hcre is she ? 

Coun. Into my hands you must place it 

Whole and entire. Whom could you find, indei^i. 
More zealously aflected to your interest ? 
No soul on earth must know it — not your father. 
He must not above all. 

]\litx. Alas ! what danger ? 

Here is no face on which I might concentre 
All the enraptured soul stirs up within me. 

lady ! tell me. Is all changed around me ? 
Or is it only I ? 

I find m}'sclf 
As among strangers ! Not a trace is left 
Of all my former wishes, former joys. 
Where has it vanished to ? There was a time 
When even, methought, with such a world as this 

1 was not discontented. Now how flat ! 

How stale ! No life, no bloom, no flavor in it! 

My comrades are intolerable to me. 

My father — Even to him I can say nothing. 

My arms, my military duties — I 

They are such wearying toys I 

Coun. But, gentle friend ! 

I must entreat it of your condescension. 
You would be pleased to sink your eye, and favor 
With one short glance or two this j)oor siaie world 
Where even now much, and of much moment, 
Is on the eve of its completion. 

Mnx. Somethmg, 

leant but knoWy is going forward touud vu«. 


I an it gaUtaiing, orowding, driTJo; on. 

In wild uneostmnary movemenU. W«ll, 

la due time, doubtlea, it will readi even no. ~~ 

'Where think pn I h&ve been, dear lady ? ITay* 

No lailleiy. The turmoil of the camp, 

The Bpriiig-tide of acquaintance nUing ia. 

The pointleu jest, the empty eonrenatioit, 

OppreMed aad stifled roe. 1 gasped for air-^ 

I could not breathe — I wu coutrained to fly. 

To leelc a ulence out for iny full heart ; 

And a puie apot wherein to feel my bappineaa 

No Mniliog, Gounteaa ! In the church waa I. 

There is a cloister here to the 'hearen's gate. 

Thither I went, there fonnd myself alone. 

Over the altar hung a holy mother ; 

A wretched painting 'twu, yet 'twas the fiiend 

That I was Keeking in this moment. Ah, 

How ol\ have I beheld that glorioua form 

In splendor, 'mid ecstatic wonhipets, 

Yet, still it moved me iiot ! and now at onee 

Was inr dirvotiou cloudless as my love. 

Coun. Enjoy your fortune and felicity '. 
Forget the world around you. Meantime, friendsfaip 
Shall keep strict vigils for you, anxious, active. 
Only be manageable when that friendship 
Points you the road to full accoroplishuicut. 
How long may it be since yon declared your paaeiou .* 

Max. This morning did I hazaid the liret word. 

Coun. This morning ihe fir^t time in twenty days "* 

Max. 'Twas at (hat huutin^-caslte. betwixt here 
And Ntrpomucb. where tjou had joined us. and — 
That was the last relay of the wholi- journey ! 
In a balcony we were staudiiig mute. 
And gazing out upon the dreary field : 
Before us the dragoons were riding onward, 
The safe^iard which the Duke had sent us — heavy 

• lam doubt fill wbetbcr thiabrlbc dnticalivn i>r theeltHatcror ttn^LOi* 
of one of tlic city galf*. iMar vhidi it rli-i.j. I hire traii*Iat<d il m U,a 
tbrmer ■euse; but fcarrul vf havim; niadr h>iiie Uuii-K-i. I .iJil tbo ••n^tiai 
— E* i*l rill liliMtcr hier inr Mi,»Mti*fijiiTit. 


The inquietude of p&rting lay upon me, 

And trembling ventured I at length these words : 

This all reminds me, noble maiden, that 

To-day, I must take leave of my good fortune, 

A few hours more, and you will find a futhei, 

Will see yourself surrounded by new friends. 

And I henceforth shall be but as a stranger, 

liost in the many — " Speak with my Aunt TerUky !" 

With hurrying voice she interrupted me. 

She faltered. I beheld a glowing red 

Foveas her beautiful cheeks, and from the ground 

Raised slowly up her eye met mine — no longer 

Did I control myself. 

[ Tlie Princess Thekla npjiears at the iloor, and remaint 

standing, observed by flic Countess, but not by Ficcy- 


With instant boldness 
i caught her in my arms, my month touched hers ; 
There was a rustling in the room close by ; 
It parted us — 'Twas you. What since has happened, 
You know. 

(Joan, (after a pause, lei/k a stolen glaitce at Tliel:ia.) And 

is it your cs 

Lcess of modesty ; 

Or are you so incuriui 

us, that you do not 

Ask me 

too of my sueret ? 


Of i/oiir secret ! 


. Why, yes! 

When in the instant 

I stepped into the roo 

m, and found my niece 

What Bh 

le in this first moment of the heart 

Ta'en w 

ith surprise— 


(tcirh ea^crr. 

im.) Well : 

Scene IV. — Tkekla (hurries forirard). Countess, Max. 

Thek. (to the Countess.) Spare yourself the trouble : 
That bears he better from mj-self 

Mt'x. (stepping backivard.) My Princess ! 
What have you lit her hear me say, Aunt Tertsky ? 

Tlu-h. (to the Oj««/e.«^ Huh lie bwn here long ? 

TBB ficooLOKnn: 

CouN. T«s ; ud kmib mnat go. 

Where have you atay«d w long ? 

Thek. Alai ! my motbet 

Wept wo again ! and I — I see hei nifler, 
Tet caD not keep myself from being h*!^. 

Max. Now once again I have oourags to look oa yoB. 
To-day 'at iioon I could not 
The dazzle of the jewels that played round you 
Hid the beloved from me. 

TheL. Then you aaw roe 

With your eye only — and not with your heart ? 

Max. This moiniog, when I found yon in the cirola 
Of all your kindred, in your father's anno. 
Beheld myself an alien in this circle, 
! wh&t an impulse felt I in that moment _ 

To fall upon bis neck, to call hint fai her .' 
But bis stern eye o'erpower'd the swelling pa»ion — 
It dared not, but be silent. And those brilliants, 
Tbtkt like a crown of stars enwreatbcd your brows. 
They scared me too I wherefore, wherefore should he 
At tlic first meeting spread as 'twere the ban 
Of eicornmuuication round you, wherefore 
Dress up the angel as for saeriUce, 
And cast upon the light and joyotis heart 
The mournful burthen of hia siatiou ? Fitly 
Hay love dare woo for love ; but such a splendor 
Uight none but monarchs venture to approach. 

Tiiek. Hush I not a word more of this mummer}-. 
You see how soon the burthen is thrown off. 
(To the Co'tnUss.) He is not in spirits. 'Wherefore is he uot* 
'Tis you, aunt, that have made him all so gloomy ! 
He had i{uite another nature on the journey — 
Ciocalm. so bright, fojoyou?, eloquent. 
( To Mux.) It was my wish to see you always so. 
And never otherwise '. 

Mti.:. You liuil yourself 

fn your great father's arms, belored lady ! 
All in a new world, which docs homage to yra. 
And which, wer't only by it* novelty, 
Onlights joui ere 


Thek, Yes ; I confess to you 

That many things delight me here : this camp, 
This motley stage of warriors, which renevrs 
So manifold the image of my fancy, 
And binds to life, binds to reality, 
What hitherto had but been present to me 
As a sweet dream ! 

Max. Alas ! not so to me, 

It makes a dream of my reality. 
Upon some island in the ethereal heights 
I've lived for these last days. This mass of men 
Forces mo down to earth. It is a bridge 
That, reconducting to my former life, 
Divides me and my Leaven. 

Thek. The game of life 

Looks cheerful, when one carries in one's heart 
The inalienable treasure. Tis a game. 
Which, having once reviewed, I turn more joyous 
Back to my deeper and appropriate bliss. 

{Breaking off^ afid m a sportive tone. 
In this short time that I've been present here. 
What new unheard-of things have I not seen ! 
And yet they all must give place to the wonder 
Which this mysterious castle guards. 

Court, {recollecting.) And what 

Can this be then ; methought I was acquainted 
With all the dusky corners of this house. 

T/iek. Ay, (smiling.) but the road thereto is watched by spunui. 
Two griffins still stand sentry at the door. 

Coun. {laughs.) The astrological tower I — How happens it 
That this same sanctuary, whose access 
Is to all others so impracticable. 
Opens before you even at your approach ? 

Tfick. A dwariish old man with a friendly face 
And snow-white hairs, whose gracious services 
Were mine at first sight, opened me the doors. 

Max. That is the Duke's astrologer, old Seui. 

2%ek. He questioned me on many points ; for instance, 
When I was born, what month, and on what day. 
Whether by day or in the night. 
VOL. vn. Z 


Coun. Hp wished 

To erect a figure for your horoeoope. 

'Diek. Mj hand too he examined, shook his head 
With such sad meaning, and the lines, methought. 
Did not square over truly with his wishes. 

Coun. Well, Princess, and what found you in this tower? 
My highest privilege has been to snatch 
A side-glance, and away I 

Tliek. It was a strange 

Sensation that came o'er me, when at first 
From the broad sunshine I stept in ; and now 
The narrowing line of daylight, that ran afler 
The closing-door, was gone ; and all about me 
'Twas pale and dusky night, with many shadows 
Fantastically cast. Here six or seven 
Colossal statues, and all kings, stood round me 
In a half-circle Each one in his hand 
A sceptre bore, and on liis head a star ; 
And in the tower no other light was there 
But from these stars : all seemed to come from them. 
** These are the planets," said that low old man, 
** They govern worldly fates, and for that cause 
Are imaged here as kings. He farthest from you, 
^i^piteful, and cold, an old man melancholy, 
With bent and yellow forehead, he is I>atuni. 
He opjx>sile, the king with the red light, 
An armed man for the battle, that is Mars : 
And both these bring but little luck to man." 
But at his side a lovely lady stood, 
The star upon her head was soft and briirht, 
And that was Venus, the bright star of joy. 
On the left hand, lo ! Mercury, with wings 
Quite in the middle glittered silver briirht 
A cheerful man, and with a monarch's mien ; 
And this was Jupiter, my fathers star : 
And at his side I saw the ??un and Moon. 

Max. never rudely will I blame his faith 
Tn the might of stars and angels I Tis not merely 
The human being's Pride that peoples space 
With life and mystical predominance ; 


Since likewise for the stricken heart of Love 

This visible nature, and this common world, 

Is all too narrow : yea, a deeper import 

tiUrks in the legend told my infant years 

Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn. 

For fable is Love*s world, his home, his birth-place : 

Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays and talismans, 

And spirits ; and delightedly believes 

Divinities, being himself divine. 

The intelligible forms of ancient poets, 

The fair humanities of old religion. 

The power, the beauty, and the majesty, 

That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain, 

Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring. 

Or chasms and wat'ry depths ; all these have vanished. 

They live no longer in the faith of reason ! 

But still the heart doth need a language, still 

Doth the old instinct bring back the old names. 

And to yon starry world they now are gone, 

Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth 

With man as with their friend ; and to the lover 

Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky 

Shoot influence down : and even at this day 

*Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great, 

And Venus who brings every thing that's fair ! 

Thek, And if this be the science of the stars, 
I too, with glad and zealous industry. 
Will learn acquaintance with this cheerful faith. 
It is a gentle and aiJi^ctionate thought. 
That in immeasurable heights above us, 
At our first birth, the wreath of love was woven, 
With sparkling stars for flowers. 

Conn. Not only roses, 

But thorns too hath the heaven ; and well for you 
Leave they your wreath of love inviolate ; 
What Venus twined, the bearer of glad fortune, 
The sullen orb of Mars soon tears to pieces. 

Max. Soon will his gloomy empire reach its closu. 
Blest be the Generars zeal : into the laurel 
Will he enweave the olive-branch, presenting 


Peaa) to the shouting natioDS. Then no wiih 

Will have remained for bis great heart ! EDongh 

Has he performed for gloiy, and can now 

Live for himself and hie. To his domaina 

Will he retire ; he has a stately seat 

Of fairest view at Gituthin ; Reichenbe^, 

And Fried land Castle, both lie pleasantly — 

Even to the foot of the huge monntains here 

Stretches the chase and covers of his foreals : 

His niUng passion, to create the splendid, 

He can indulge without restraint; can give 

A princely patronage la every art, 

And to all worth a Sovereign's protection ; 

Can build, can plant, can watch the starry coursea — 

Coun. Yet 1 would have you look, and look again. 
Before you lay aside your arms, young friend ! 
A gentle bride, as she is, is well worth it. 
That you should woo and win her with the aword. 

Maz. 0, that the sword could win her 1 

Coun. What was that T 

Did you hear nothing ? Seemed, as if I heard 
Tumnlt and latum in the banquet-room. \Exit Oountess- 

ScENB V. — Thckla and Max. Piccolomini. 
Thek. (ns soon «s the Countess is out of sight, in a gvia 
loir voite to Piccolamtni.) Don"t trust them ! They ar 

Max. Impossible 1 

Tkek. Tnist no one here but me. I saw at once. 
They had a puTjxtse. 

Mux. Purpose '. but what purpose ? 

And how can we he instrumental to it ? 

Tliek. I know no more than yon ; hut yet bcheve mo : 
There's some design in this 1 to make us happy, 

They hut pretend to wish it. 

Max. But these Tertsk)-8 

Why use we them at all ? Why not your mother ? 
£icellent creature '. B\\e ieserve* fc«i\ \a 
' A full and filial confiiciwe. 


Tltek. She doth love you, 

J)olh rate you high before all others — but — 
But such a secret — she would never have 
The courage to conceal it from my father. 
For her own peace of mind we must preserve it 
A secret from her too. 

Max, Why any secret ? 

[ love not secrets. Mark, what I will do. 
I'll throw me at your father's feet — let him 
Decide upon my fortunes ! — He is true, 
He wears no mask — he hates all crooked ways — 
He is so good, so noble ! 

Thek. {falls on his neck.) That are you ! 

Alax. You knew him only since this morn ; but I 
Have lived ten years already in his presence, 
And who knows whether in this very moment 
He is not merely waiting for us both 
To own our loves, in order to unite us. 

You are silent ! 

You look at me with such a hopelessness ! 
What have you to object against your father ? 

Thek, I ? Nothing. Only he's so occupied — 
He has no leisure time to think about 
The happiness of us two. [ Taking his hand tenderly, 

Follow mo ! 
Let us not place too great a faith in men. 
These Tertskys — we will still be grateful to them 
For every kindness, but not trust them further 

Than they deserve ; — and in all else rely 

On our own hearts ! 

Max. ! shall we e'er be happy ? 

Tliek. Are wo not happy now? Art thou not mine? 
Am I not thine ? There lives within my soul 
A lofty courage — 'tis love gives it me ! 
1 ought to be less open — ought to hide 
My heart more from thee — so decoriurn dictates : 
But where in this place couldst thou seek lor truth, 
If in my mouth thou didst not find it ? 


Scene VI. — To them eTUers the Countest Tertah/. 

Coun. {in a pressing manner.) Come I 
My husbftod sends mc tor you. — It is now 

The latest moment, {they not appearing to attend to what the 
says, site steps bettceen them.) 
Part you ! 
Thek. 0, not yet ; 

It hu been scarce a moment. 

Coun. Ay ! Then time 

Flies swiOly with your Highness, Princess niece \ 
Max. There is no hurry, aunt. 
Coun, Away ! away I 

The folks begin to miss you. Twice aJready 
His father has asked for him. 

T/iek. Ha ! his father ? 

Coun. You understand that, niece I 
Thek. ^Vhy needs he 

To go at all lo that society ? 
'Tis not his proper company. They may 
Bo worthy nien, but he's too young for them. 
In brief, he suits not such socioly. 

Comi. You mean, you'd rather keep Iiim wholly here ? 
Thek. {icilh energy-) Y^cs ! you have liit it. aunt ! That Is my 
Leave him here wholly I Tuli the company — 

Coun. What I have you lost your senses, niece ? — 
Count, you remember the conditions. Come ! 

Max. {to T/irk/a.) LaJy, I must obey. Farewell, dear lady! 
[T/tekIa turns aivay from liirti vrith a quick motion. 
What say you then, dear lady ? 

T/iek. {iriihout looking: at him.) Nothing. Go! 

MuT. Can I, when you are angrj- 

( lie draws vp lo hrr, ilteir eyes meet, fhe standi silent a 
moment, then throtrs herself into his arms ; he jiresfts 
her fast to his heart. 
Conn, on': Heavens ! if any one should come ! 

Hark ! What's that noise ; It comes this way. Ofi"! 

'Max. tears himself away out of her arms, and fzoes. Tki 
Countess accompanies him. Tliek/a folloics Itim icilh her 


fyes at firsts toalks restlessly across tlie room, tlicn stops, and 
remains standing, lost in tJwught. A guitar lies on tite 
taUe, she seizes it as by a sudden emotion, and after site Jtas 
j)layed awhile an irregtdar and melancholy symphony, she 
falls gradually into tlie music and sings. 

Thelda {plays and sings). 

The cloud doth gather, the greenwood roar, 
The damsel paces along the shore ; 
The billows they tumble with might, with might ; 
And she flings out her voice to the darksome night ; 

Her bosom is swelling with sorrow ; 
The world it is empty, the heart will die, 
There's nothing to wish for beneath the sky : 
Thou Holy One, call thy child away ! 
I've lived and loved, and that was to-day — 

Make ready my grave-clothes to-morrow.* 

* I found it not in my power to translate this song with literal fidelity, 
preserving at the some time the Alcaic movement; and have therefore 
Added the original with a prose translation. Some of my readers may b^ 
more fortunate. 

Thekla (ttpielt utid iingt). 

Der Eichwald brauset, die Wolken ziehn, 
Das Mogdk'in wnudclt an Ufers Grun, 
£s bricht sich die Welle mit Mncbt^ mit Macht, 
Und sie singt hiuaus in die finstrc Nacht, 

Das Auge von Weiuen getrubct : 
Das Herz ist gestorben, die Welt ist leer, 
Und weiter giebt sie dem Wunscbe nichts mehr. 
Du Heilige, rufe dcin Kind zurilck, 
Ich babe geuossen das irdiscbe Gli^ck, 

Icb babe gelebt und geliebct. 

Literal IVanslation. 
Tftekla ( plays and aingt). • 

The oak-forest bellows, the clouds gather, the damsel walks to and fro on 
ibc green of the shore; the wave breaks with might, with might, and she 
sings out into the dark night, her eye discolored with weeping: the hoarl 
Is dead, the world is empty, and further gives it nothing more to the wish. 
Thou Holy One, call thy child home. I have enjoyed the happiness of this 
world, I have lived and have loved. 

I ttin not but add here an imitation of this podic, with which the author 


ScES-E Vir. — Countess (rOums). Thdda. 

Court. Fie, lady niece ! to throw younelf upon hin. 
Like & poor gift to oqo who cares not for it, 
A.nd so must be flung after him I For you, 
Duke Fiiedland's only child, I should have thought. 
It had been more beseeming to have shown younelf 
Ucre chary of your person. 

JTieic. {rising.) And what mean yon ? 

Coun. I mean, niece, that yoii should not have forgotten 
Who you are, and who he is. But perchance 
That never once occurred to you. 

The!:. liMiat then I 

Coun. That you are the daughter of the Piincc Dake Fried 

Thek. Well— and what farther ? 

Coun. What 1 a pretty question ! 

Thet. He was bom that whioli we have but become. 
He's of an ancient Lombard family. 
Son of a rei^uiug princess. 

Coun. Are you dreaming ? 

Talking in steep ? An excellent jest, forsooth ! 
We shall no donbl right courteously erUreat him 
To honor with his hand the richest heiress 
In Europe, 

Thck. That will not he iiceessary. 

Coun. Melhinks 'twere well though not to run the hazard. 

Tliek. His father loves him, Count Octavio 
Will interpose no diiEculty 

••! "Tbe Tale of Ra«imiiud Gray and ISIiiul Murgaret" has Uvored m*. anil 

which appears [o mo to bav« caught the happiest niaooer of our old bnlluk 

Th« clouds aro blackoniug, the storms tlu'ealening, 

11ic cavern dulli iDutler. the ^eeun-ood luoaa ; 
Itillnn-s are breaking, the dam^era heart aeUtig, 
Thus in llic <iurl: night the piugeth aloae, 
Her eve upward roviit;;; 
The Trr>rhl is empty, the huart ii dead surely. 

Id tiiis irurld plaiuly all seemeth aiii:ss ; 
To Hiy heaven. Uuly One, take home thy littleoD^ 
I bsTfl partaken of all earth's bliss, 
Bath liTiog and luviag. 


Coun. His ! 

His father ! his ! But yours, niece, what of yours ? 

Thek. Why 1 be^n to think you fear his father. 
So anxiously you hide it from the man ! 
His father, his^ I mean. 

Coun. {looks at Iver as scrutinizing.) Niece, you nre false 

Thek. Arc you then wounded*^ 0, be friends with me I 

Coun, You hold your game for one already. Do not 
Triumph too soon ! — 

Tliek. (interrupting her, and attempting to soothe her.) Nay 
now, be friends with me. 

Coun. It is not yet so far gone. 

IViek. I believe you. 

Coun. Did you suppose your father had laid out 
His most important life in toils of war, 
Denied himself each quiet earthly bliss. 
Had banished slumber from his tent, devoted 
His noble head to care, and for this only , 
To make a happy pair of you ? At length 
To draw you from your convent, and conduct 
In easy triumph to your arms the man 
That chanced to please your eyes ! All this, methinks, 
He might have purchased at a cheaper rate. 

Tliek. That which he did not plant for me might yet 
Bear me fair fniitago of its own accord. 
And if my friendly and afiectionatc fate. 
Out of his fearful and enormous being. 
Will but prepare the joys of life for me — 

Coun. Thou seest it with a lovelorn maiden^s eyes. 
Cast thine eye round, bethink thee who thou art. 
Into no house of joyance hast thou stepped, 
For no espousals dost thou find the walls 
Decked out, no guests the nuptial garland wearing. 
Here is no splendor but of arms. Or think'st thou 
That all these thousands are here congregated 
To lead up the long dances at thy wedding ? 
Thou seest thy father's forehead full of thought, 
Thy mother's eye in tears : upon the balance 
Lies the great destiny of all our house. 
liOaTe no* "^sh, the girlish feeling, 



ihruet it far behind thcc ! Give thou prool, 
Thuu'n the daughter of the Mighty — his 
Who where he inoveB creules the woaderful. 
Not to herself the woman must belong, 
Annexed and bound to alien destinies. 

But she performH the beat part, she the wiseat. 
Who can transtnute the alien into Belf; 
Meet and disami necessity by choice, 
And what must be, take freely to her heart. 
And bear and foster it with mother's love. 

Tliek. Sueh evor was my leseon in the convent 

1 bad no loves, no wishes, knew myself 
Only as his — his daughter — his, the Mighty ! 
His fame, the echo of whose blast drove to roe 
From the far distance, wakened in my soul 
No other thought than this — 1 am appointed 
To oirer up my«>lf in pu^ivene^s Id him. 

Coun. That is thy lale. Mould thou ihy wishes to it 
T and thy mother gave thee the e.xampte, 

Tlick. My fale hath shown me him, to whom behooves ; 
That I should oiler up myself. In gladuesa 
Him will I follow. 

Coun. Kot thy fate hath shown liiin ! 

Thy heart, say rather — 'twas thy heart, my child I 

Thfk. Fate hath no voice but the heart's impulses. 
I am all his! His present — his alone. 
Is this new life, which lives in me. He hath 
A right to his own creature. What wa.i I 
Ere his fair love infused a soul into me ? 

Coun. Thou wouldst oppose thy father then, should he 
Have otherwise determined with thy person ? 

{Tliekla remains silent. Thr Coiiniess coK/tRn 
Thou mcau'st to force him to thy Uking .' — Child, 
His name is Friedland, 

Thck. Ml/ name loo is Friedland. 

He shall have foimd a genuine daughter in me. 

Coun. What? he has vanquished all impediment. 
And in the wilful mood of his own daughter 
Shall a new Blruggte rise for him ? Child ! child! 


\s yet thou hsEt soon thy father's smilea alone ; 
The eye of his rage thou hast not seen. Dear child, 
1 will not frighten thee. To that cKtrome. 
I trust, it ne'er shall come. His will is yet 
Unknown to me : 'tis possible his aims 
May have the same direction as thy wish. 
But this can never, never be his will 
That thou, the daughter of his haughty fortunes, 
Bhould'at e'er demean thee ns a lovo-sick maiden ; 
And like some poor cost-nothing, fling thyself 
Toward the man, who, i/that high prize ever 
Be destined to await him. yet, with sacrifices 
The highest love can bring, must pay for it, [Exit Counten^. 
Tltek. (who during the liiit speech, had been lout in }ier re- 
fccliims.) I thank thee for the Jiiiit. It turns 
My sad presentiment to certainty. 
And it is so ! — Not one friend have we here. 
Not one true heort ! we've nothing but ourtelyea! 

she said rightly — no auspicious signs 
l^eain on this covenant of our afTeclions. 
This ia no theatre, where hope abides. 

The dull thick noise of war alone alire here. 
Anil love himself, as he were armed in steel. 
Steps forth, and girds him for the Htrife of death. 

[Music/rom the .banqnel-room it heard. 
There's a dark spirit walking in our house. 
And swiftly will the Destiny close on ns. 
It drove me hither from my calm asylum, 
It mocks my soul with charming witchery, 
It lures me forward in a seraph's shape, 

1 see it near, I see it nearer floating. 

It draws, it pulls me with a god-like power— 
And lo ! the abyss — and thither am I moviug — 
I have no power within nie not to move ! 

{The music from tite banquet-ronm becomes louder. 
O when a house is doomed iu fire to perish, 
Many a dark heaven drives his clouds together. 
Yea, shoots his lightnings down from sunny heights, 
Flames bunt from out the subterraneous chasms. 


'And fiends and angels ming-Un^ in their fury, 

Slin« firebrands at the burning edifice [Exit Thtlda. 

iJCEKG VIII. — A large Saloon U![hled up trith festal tplatiior; 
in the midst of it. and in the cfiHre of Ike Stage, a Ta^t 
richh/ stt out, at leiuch eiglit Generah are silting, amone 
vhomarc Oclavio Piccolomini, Tertski/.and Jilaradas. Sifihl 
and lefi of i/iis, butfirtker back, ttco otlur Tables, at each 
of which six Fersons xrc p/aced. The Middle Door, tchick 
is Standing open, gives to the Prospect a fourth Tabie, leith 
the sartic ?i umber of Persons. More forward stands the sitle- 
board. The whole front of the Sta^e is kejtt open for the 
Pages and Servants in waiting. All is in motion. The 
bantl of Music Mnnging to Terlsky's Regitnent march across 
the Stage, and drate up rotiitd the Tables. Before the)/ are 
quite off from the Front of the Stage, Mux. Piccolomini ap 
penrs, Tertshj advances toimnh him with a Pajx-r, Jsolani 
romcs up to meet him vilh a Beaker or Serrice-ciip. 

Trrlsky, Jsolani, Mii.c. Piccolomini. 

Jso. Here, brother, what we luve '. Why, where hoet been * 
Off to thy place — quick 1 Ti-rlsky here lias given 
The molht'r's holiday-wine tip to free booty. 
Here it goes on as at the Heidelberg castlu. 
Already hast thou lost the best. They're giving 
At yonder table iliieal crowns iu shares ; 
There's Sternberg's lands and chattels are put ii|i. 
With Egenberg's, Stawata's, Liehlenstein's. 
And all the great Bohemian feodalitii'S. 
Be nimble, lad ! and something may turn np 
For thee — who knows ? off— to thy place I cjuiek 1 march I 

Ticfciifiavh and Goctz. (cull out from the second and thira 
table.'. Connt Piccoloraini ! 

2V^ Slop, ye shall have him in an instanl.— Real 

■ Tlitre arc frw, who will not Iibvp tnslo tu-niL-h t.> !.-iiiL-h at tlie two w<i 
clwUDir 1iu«« of (lii-i 8'i1iIiH]uv ; niul Elill fvtriT. 1 nnuld fain lii>pe. -n-bo vasAi 
DDt have brm ineire <)i}pi4i-<l to slicJder. hail I ^iveii n faithful trauaUlioa 
Pot the readen of Girriiinu I bave ndJcd llii- uri^ual : 


This oath here, whether as 'tis here set forth, 
The wording satisfies you. They've all read it, 
Each in his turn, and each one will subscribe 
His individual signature. 

Max, {reads.) " Ingratis servire nefas." 

Iso. That sounds to my ears very much like Latin, 
And being interpreted, pray what may't mean ? 

Ter, No honest man will serve a thankless master. 

Max. '' Inasmuch as our supreme Commander the illustrioua 
Duke of Friedland, in consequence of the manifold affronts and 
grievances which he has received, had expressed his determi- 
nation to quit the Emperor, but on our unanimous entreaty has 
graciously consented to remain still with the army, and not to 
part from us without our approbation thereof, so we, collectively 
and each in particular, in the stead of an oath personally taken, 
do hereby oblige ourselves — likewise by him honorably and faith- 
fully to hold, and in nowise whatsoever from him to part, and 
to be ready to shed for his interests the last drop of our blood, 
so far, namely, as our oath to tlie Eftiperor will permit it. ( These 
last words are repeated by Isolani.) In testimony of vhich we 
subscribe our names." 

Ter. Now ! — are you willing to subscribe this paper ? 

Iso. Why should he not ? All officers of honor 
Can do it, ay, must do it. — Pen and ink here ! 

Ter. Nay, let it rest till after meal. 

Iso. {drawing Max. along.) Come, Max. 

[Both seat tliemsehes at tlieir tabU 

Scene IX. — Tertsky, Neumann, 

Ter. {beckons to Neumann, %oJio is waiting at tlie side-table, 
and steps forward unth him to tlie edge of the stage.) 
Have you the copy with you, Neumann ? Give it. 
It may be changed for the other ? 

Ncu, I have copied it 

Ijctter by letter, line by line ; no eye 
Would e'er discover other difference, 
iSave only the omission of that clause, 
According to your Excellency's order. 


Ter. Bjght ! lay it yonder, and away with this — 
It bos ^rfoTined its business — to the fire with it — 

\Iieumanti lays the copy on the table, and steps back 
again to tite side-table. 



tut from tke second chamber), Tcrlsky. 

lllo. How goes it with young Piccolomini ? 

Ter. All right, I think. He has starleii no olgectiou. 

lllo. He is the only one 1 Tear about — 
He and his father. Have an eye on both! 

Ter. How looks it at your lnb!c : you forget not 
To keep them warm and stirring ? 

lllo. 0, quite cordiai. 

They are quite cordial in the seheme. "We have them. 
And 'tia as I predicted, loo. Already 
It is the talk, not merely to maintain 
The Duke in station. ■' Since we're once for all 
Together and unanimous, why not." 
Says Montecuculi, " ay, why not onward, 
And make conditions \vilh the Emperor 
There in his own Vienna ?' Trust me. Count, 
Were it not for these said Piccolomini, 
We might have spared ourselves the cheat. 

Ter. And Butler 7 

How goes it there ? Hush I 

Sl^kne W.— To them enter Butler from the 
B'lt. Don't disturb yoursel 

Field Marshal. I have understood you perlecily. 
Good Inck be to the scheme ; and as to me, 

[ With an fli 
You may depend upon me. 

Hlo. '{with vitacily.) May we, Butler ? 
But. \Viih or without the clause, all one to mt 
You understand niu ? My fidelity 
The Duke may put to finy proof— I'm with him 
Tell him so I I'm the Emperor's oflieer, 
As long as 'tis his pleasure to rcmnlu 
The Emperor's general ! and Friedland's servant 

of mystery 


As soon as it shall please him to become 
His own lord. 

Ter. You would make a good exchange. 

No stern economist, no Ferdinand, 
Is he to whom you plight your services. 

But. {with a luiughty look.) I do not put up my fidelity 50U 
To sale, Count Tertsky I Half a year ago 
1 would not have advised you to have made me 
An overture to that, to which I now 
Ofler myself of my own free accord. — 
But that is past ! and to the Duke, Field Marshal, 
I bring myself together with my regiment. 
And mark you, 'tis my humor to believe, 
The example which I give will not remain 
AVithout an influence. 

Illo. Who is ignorant, 

That the whole army look to Colonel Butler, 
As to a light that moves before them ? 

But. Ey ? 

Then I repent me not of that fidelity 
"Which for the length of forty years I held, 
If in my sixtieth year my old good name 
Can purchase for me a revenge so full. 
iStart not at what I say, sir Generals ! 
My real motives — they concern not you. 
And you yourselves, I trust, could not expect 
That this your game had crooked my judgment— or 
That fickleness, quick blood, or such light cause, 
Had driven the old man from the track of honor, 
AVhich he so long had trodden. — Come, my friends * 
Frn not thereto determined with less firmness, 
Because I know and have looked steadily 
At that on which I have dotennined. 

lUo. Say, 

And speak roundly, what are we to deem you ? 

But. A friend I I give you here my hand ! Fm yours 
With all I have. Not only men, but money 

Will the Duke want, Go, tell him, sirs ! 

Tve earned and laid up somewhat in his service, 
I lend it him ; and is he my survivor. 


II has l«eii already long ago beqaeallied him. 
He is my heir. For aie, 1 stand alone, 
Here in the world ; naught know I of the feeling 
That binds the husband (o a wife and children. 
Uy name dies with ine, my existence ends. 

Illo. 'Tie not your money that he needs — a heart 
Like yours weighs tons of gold down, weighs down millioail 

But. I came a sirnpb soldier's boy from Ireland 
To Prague — and with a master, whom 1 buried. 
From lowest stable duty I climbed up, 
Such was the fate of war, to this high rank, 
The plaything of a whimsicBl good fortune. 
And Wallenstein too ts a child of luck, 
I love a fortune that is like my own. 

Hlo. All powerful souls have kindred witk each otbor. 

But. This is an awful moment 1 to the brave. 
To the determined, an auspicious moment. 
The Prince of Weimar arms, upon the Maine 
To found a mighty dukedom. He of Halberstadl, 
That Mansfeld, wanted but a longer life 
To have marked out with his good sword a lordship 
That should reward his courage. Who of these 
Equals our Fricdiand ? There is nothing, nothing 
So high, but he may set the ladder to it 1 

Ter. That's sj^ken like a man ! 

Bui. Do you secure the Spaniard and Italian— 
I'll be your warrant for the Scotchman Lesty. 
Come I to the company ! 

Tcr. Where is the master of the cellar ? Ho ! 
Let the best wines come up. Ho ! chcerly, boy 1 
Luck comes tu-day, so give her hearty welcome. 

{ExeuiU, each to hii UtbU. 

ScESE Xn. — The Muster of the Cellar advancing leitk Nat- 
niaitn. Scrvatits passing backicards and foricards. 

Masl. of llie Ccl. The best wine ! ! if my old mistress bii 
lady mother, could but see these wild goings on, she would turn 
herself round id her grave. Yes, yes, sir officer I 'tis aJl down 
the hill with this noble house ! no end, no moderation ! And this 


marriac^e with the Duke*8 sister, a splendid connection, a very 
splendid connection ! but I tell you, sir ollicer, it bodes no good. 

Neu. Heaven forbid ! Why, at this very moment the whole 
prospect is in bud and blossom ! 

Mast, of the Cel. You think so ? — ^Well, well ! much may be 
said on that head. 

1st. Ser. {comes.) Burgundy for the fourth table. 

Alast. of tJie Cel. Now, sir lieutenant, if this isn't the seven- 
tieth flask 

3 s/. Ser. Why, the reason is, that German lord, Tiefenbach, 
sits at that table. 

Mast, of tlu Cel. (continuing his discourse to Neumann.) 
They are soaring too high. They would rival kings and electors 
in their pomp and splendor ; and wherever the Buke leaps, not a 
minute does my gracious master, the Count, loiter on the brink. 

{to tJie Servants.) — What do you stand there listening for? 

I will let you know you have legs presently. OH! see to the 
tables, see to the flasks I Look there ! Count Falfl has an empty 
glass before him ! 

Runner, {comes) The great service-cup is wanted, sir ; that 
rich gold cup with the Bohemian arms on it. The Count says 
you know which it is. 

MoAt. of tlie Cel. Ay ! that was made for Frederick's corona* 
tion by the artist William — there was not such another prize in 
the whole booty at Prague. 

Runner. The same ! — a health is to go round in him. 

Mast, of f.lie Cel. {sliaking his Jiead^ while he fetches and 
rinses the cup.) This will be something for the tale-bearers — this 
goes to Vienna. 

JNeu. Permit me to look at it. — Well, this is a cup indeed ! 
[low heavy ! as well it may be, being all gold. — And what neat 
things are embossed on it I how natural and elegant they look ! 
There, on that flrst quarter, let me see. That proud Amazon 
there on horseback, she that is taking a leap over the crosier and 
mitres, and carries on a wand a hat together with a banner, on 
which there's a goblet represented. Can you tell me what all 
this signifies ? 

Mast, of tlie Cel. The woman whom you see there on horse- 
back, is the Free Election of the Bohemian Crown. ' That if 


signified by the round hat, and by that fiery steed oq which she 
is riding. The hat is the pride of man ; for he who can not 
keep his hat on before kings and emperors is no free man. 

Neu. But what is the cup there on the banner? 

Mast, of tlie Cd. The cup signifies the freedom of the Bohe- 
mian Church, as it was in our forefathers* times. Our forefathers 
in the wars of the Hussites forced from the Pope this noble privi- 
lege : for the Pope, you know, will not grant the cup to any lay- 
man. Your true Moravian values nothing beyond the cup ; it is 
his costly jewel, and has cost the Bohemians their precious blood 
in many and many a battle. 

jVeu. And what says that chart that hangs in the air there, 
over it all ? 

Mast, of i?ie Cel. That signifies the Bohemian letter royal 
which we forced from the Emperor Rudolph — ^a precious, never 
to be enough valued parchment, that secures to the new Churrh 
the old privileges of free ringing and ojien psalmody. But sinre 
he of SteiermJirk has ruled over us, that is at an end ; and after 
the battle at Prague, iu which Count Frederick Palatine lust 
crown and empire, our faith hangs upon the pulpit and the altar — 
and our brethren look at their homes over their shoulders ; hut the 
letter royal the Emperor hiinsclt' cut to pieces with his scissors. 

Ncu. Why, my good Master of the Cellar I you are deep read 
in the chronicles of your country I 

Mast, of the CcL So were my forefathers, and for that reason 
were they minstrels, and served under Procopius and Ziska. 
Peace be with their ashes I Well, well I they fought for a good 
cause though — There ! carry it up I 

Xcu, Stay I let me but look at this second quarter. Look 
th^re! That is, when at Prague Castle the Imperial Counsellore, 
Martinitz and Stawata, were hurled down head over heels. Tis 
even sol there stands Count Thur who commands it. 

\Runner takes the service-cup a /id goes off icith it. 

Mtrst. of the CeL let me never hear more of that day. It 
was the three and twentieth of May, in the year of our Lord one 
thousand, six hundred, and eighteen. It seems to nie as it were 
but yesterday — from that unlucky day it all befiran. all the heart- 
aches of the country. Since that day it is now sixteen years, and 
there has never once been peace on the earth. 

[ Health drunk aloud at tJie second table. 


The Prince of Weimar ! Hurra ! 

[At tlie third and fourth table. 

Long live Prince William ! Long live Duke Bernard I 
Hurra ! [Music strikes up, 

1st. Ser. Hear *em ! Hear *em ! What an uproar I 

2(1. Ser, {comes in running.) Did you hear? They have 
drunk the Prince of Weimar's health. 

3d. Ser. The Swedish Chief Commander ! 

1st. Ser. {speaki?ig at the same time.) The Lutheran ! 

2d, Ser. Just before when Count Deodate gave out the Emp« 
ror's health, they were all as mum as a nibbling mouse. 

Mast, of tJic Cel. Poh, poh ! When the wine goes in, strange 
things come out. A good servant hears, and hears not ! — You 
should be nothing but eyes and feet, except when you are called. 

2d. Ser. {to tfte Runner, to wJwm lie gives secretly a flask 
of xoiiie, keeping his eye on tJie Master of the Cellar^ standing 
beticeen him and the Runner.) Cluick, Thomas! before the Mas- 
ter of the Cellar runs this way I — 'tis a flask of Frontignac I — 
Snapped it up at the third table. — Canst go off' with it? 

Rwi. {hides it hi his pocket.) All right ! 

[Exit the Second Servant. 

3d. Ser. {aside to the First.) Be on the hark, Jack ! that we 
may have right plenty to tell to Father duivoga — He will give 
us right plenty of absolution in return for it. 

l5^ Ser. For that very purpose 1 am always having something 
to do behind Illo's chair. — Ho is the man for speeches to make 
you stare with ! 

Mast, oftlir. Cel. {to Neumann.) Who, pray, may that swar- 
thy man be, he with the cross, that is chatting so confidently 
with Esterhats ? 

Ncu. Ay ! he too is one of those to whom they confide too 
much. He calls himself Maradas, a Spaniard is he. 

Mast, of the Cel. {impatiently.) Spaniard! Spaniard! — I tell 
you, friend ; nothing good comes of those Spaniards. All these 
out-landish* fellows are little better than rogues. 

* There is a humor in the original Tchich can not bo given in the trans- 
lutiot). "Die Welschen alle," <tc. which word in claAsical Germoi) means the 
ItalianB alone ; but iu its first sense, and at present in the vulgar use of the 
word, signifies foreigners in general Our word wall-nuts, I suppuae, 
loeaoa outlandUh nuta — Wall» Duee% in Gennan " Welsct-nilssc ** 

548 1'HE FlCCOLOMnri. 

Neu. Fy, fy ! you should Dot say s« , inend. There ue uBOBg 
them our very best generals, and those on whoio the Doke at tliii 
moment relies the most. 

Mast, of (he Cel. (taking the fiask atU of the BMima't 

pocket.) My son, it will be broken to pieces m your pocket- ~ 

yUrtiky htirriei in, fetches atcay tlie paper, and eaiU toa 

Servant for pen and ink, and goes to the back of the ttase. 

Mast, of the Cel. {to llie Servants.) The Lieutenaut-Genml 

stands up. — Be ou the watch. — Now! They break up. — Off, and 

move back the foims. 

[They rise at ail tlie tables, tlie Servants hurry off the 
front of the stage to the tables ; pari of the Guests 
come forward. 

Scene XIII. — Octavio Piccohmini enters in conccrsation uitk 
Maradas, and both jAtce ifiemselves quite on the edge of the 
stage on one sii/c of the proscenium. On the side direcitg 
opjKsile, Jl/ujr. I'lixolomini, by himself, lost in tluniiiht, anil 
taking no part in anything that is going for tea rd. Tht 
middle space between both, bat ralhcr more distant from the 
alge of the stage, isfdleil vp by Butler, Jsolani. Goctz, Tir/hf 
bach, and Kolufto. 
Iso. {uhile the company is coming foric'ird.) Good night, good 

night. Kolalto! Good uighl, Lieiiteikant-Geucral 1 — I ahouU 

rmher say. flood morning. 

Goetz. {to Tiefenbach, making the usual eomplimenl ofer 

meals.) Xoble brother ! 

Tief. Ay '. 'twas a royal feast indeed. 

Goetz. Yes, my Lady Uounlesa understands these, matters. 

Her mother-in-law, heaven rest her sonl, taught her ! — Ah ! that 

was a housewife for you '. 

Tief There was not her like in all Bohemia for setting oiit a 


Or(. {aside to JIaradat.) Do me the favor to talk to me — talk 

of what you will — or of nothing. Only preserve the appearauc« 

at least ol' talking. I would not wish to Eland by myself, and 

yet I conjecture that there will he goings on hore worthy of oui 

attentive observation. 

[He continues to fix his et/e on t)ie tciiole foiloieing scent 
Iso. (on tlie point oj going.) Lights ! lights ! 


Ter. (advances taith t)ie paper to Isolani,) Noble brother ! two 
minutes long^er ! — Here is something to subscribe. 

Iso. Subscribe as much as you like — but you must excuse me 
from reading it. 

Ter, There is no need. It is the oath which you have already 
rerA. — Only a few marks of your pen I 

[Isolani Jiands over tJie paper to Octavio respectfully, 

Ter, Nay, nay, first come first served. There is no prece- 
dence here. 

[ Octavio runs over tJie paper taith apparent indifference, 
Tcrtsky watcfies him at some distance. 

Goetz. {to Tertsky,) Noble Count ! with your permission — 
Good night. 

Ter. Where's the hurry ? Come, one other composing draught. 
( To tJie Servants,) — Ho ! 

Goetz, Excuse me — an't able. 

Ter. A thimble-full ! 

Goetz. Excuse me. 

Tie/, {sits down.) Pardon me, nobles ! — ^This standing does not 
agree with me. 

Ter, Consult only your own convenience, General! 

Tie/, Clear at head, sound in stomach — only my legs won't 
sarry me any longer. 

Iso. ( pointing at his corpulence.) Poor Legs ! how should 
they ? Such an unmerciful load ! 

[Octavio subscribes his name, and reaches over the paj^r 
to Tertsky, who gives it to Isolani ; and he goes to tlie 
table to sig?i hi^ name. 

Tief. *Twa8 that war in Pomerania that first brought it on. 
Out in all weathers — ice and snow — no help for it. — I shall never 
get the better of it all the days of my liie. 

Goetz, Why, in simple verity, your Swede makes no nice in- 
quiries about the season. 

Ter, {observifig Isdaiti, wliose hand trembles excessively, so 
tluit lie can scarce direct his jjcn.) Have you had that ugly com- 
plaint long, noble brother ? — Despatch it. 

Iso. The sins of youth ! I have already tried the Chalybeate 
waters. Well — I must bear it. 

[Tertsky gives the paper to Maradas; he steps to tJi/e 
table to subscribe. 


Oct. (advanaHg to ButUr.) Yon ara not over find ■>{ lk< 
orgies of BftCcbuB, Colonel ! I have obwrved it. Yon wooU, 1 
think, find yourself more to your liking in the uproar of a twttle. 
than of a feast. 

But. I must confess, 'lit not in my way. 

Oct. {stepping nearer to him,friendlily.) Nor in mine eitbei. 
I can assure you ; and I am not a little glad, my much honored 
Uolonel Butler, that we agree so well in our opinionf. A half 
dozen good friends at most, at a small round table, a glass of 
genuine Tokay, open hearts, and a rational conversation — tfaat'i 
my taste 1 

^u^. And mine too, when it can be had. 

[ The paper comes to Tiefenbach. tcho plances over it at 
tlie same time icilh Goelz and Kolatto. jMaradas in 
iks mean time returns lo Oelavio ; alt this takes ptaa, 
the conversation tcith Butler proceeding unittterru/ittd. 

Oct. {introducing Ma radaslo Butler.) Don Balthaaar Mira- 
das! likewise a man ol'onr stamp, aud long ago your admin-r. 
\Butler boin. 

Oct. {continuing.) You are astran^r here — 'twas but yester- 
day you arrived — you are ignorant of the ways and means here. 
Tis a wretched place — I know, at our age, one lores to be snug 
and quiel — What if you moved your lodgings? — Come, be my 
visitor. {Butler tnairs a luw bow.) Xoy, without coiiipii 
ment I— For a friend liku ycu. I hav« sliU a comer rcmaluiiijr. 

But. {cnldlij.) Your obliged humble servant. My Lord Lien 

1 The pajx'r comes to Butler, who goex lo tlie table to stilf 
scribe it. TUc front of the stage is racant, so that 
both tlic Biccoluminis, each on tite side ttitere he had 
been from the commencement of the scene, remain alone, 
Oct. {after Itaving some time iiatchetl his son in silence, ad- 
vances some/'.-hal neurcr lo him.) You were long absent from 

Max. 1 urpient business detained me. 

Oct. Aiiij, I observe, you are slill absent I 

Max. You know (his crowd and bustle always makes dm 

Oct. May I tw permitted lo ask what business 'iwaa that <1» 
tained you .' Tertsiy knows it without ai-kiug! 


Max, What does Tertsky know ? 

Oct. He was the only one who did not miss you. 

Iso. (wlio has been attending to Ui£m frcm some distaficBt 
tt.eps up.) Well done, father ! Rout out his baggage ! Beat up 
his quarters ! there is something there that should not be. 

Ter, {tcith t fie paper.) Is there none wanting ? Have the 
whole subscribed ? 

Oct. All. 

7>r. (calling alotul.) Ho ! Who subscribes ? 

But. {to Tertsky.) Count the names. There ought to be just 

TtT. Here is a cross. 

Tief. That's my mark. 

Iso. He can not write ; but his cross is a good cross, and is 
honored by Jews as well as Christians. 

Oct. ( presses on to Max,) Come, General ! let us go. It is late. 

Ter. One Ficcolomini only has signed. 

Iso {jwinting to Max.) liook ! that is your man, that statue 
there, who has had neither eye, ear, nor tongue for us the whole 

[Max. receives tJie paper from Tertsky, which lie looks upon 

Scene XIV. — To tJiese enter Illofrom tJie inner room. He Juis 
in his hand tlie golden service-cup, and is extremeiy distem- 
pered tvith drinking : Goetz and Butler folloic him, en^ 
deavoring to keep him back. 

Illo, What do you want ? Let me go. 

Goetz and But, Drink no more, Illo ! For heaven*s sake, 
drink no more. 

Illo. (goes up to Octavio and sliakes him cordially by the luind, 
and then drinks.) Octavio ! I bring this to you. Let all grudge 
be drowned in this friendly bowl ! I know well enough, ye never 
loved me — Devil take me ! — and I never loved you I — I am al- 
ways even with people in that way ! — Let what's past be past — 
that is, you understand — forgotten ! I esteem you infinitely. 
(Embracing him repeatedly.) You have not a dearer friend on 
earth than I — but that you know. The fellow that cries rogue 
to you calls me villain — and Til strangle him ! — my dear friend ! 


Ter, {whispering to him.) Art in thy senses? For heavKt't 

sake, lllo ! think where you are !- 

lllo. (aimed.) What do you mean ? — ^There are none hat 
friends here, are there ? {Looks round the whale cirtle wiik a 
jolly and triumpliant air.) Not a sneaker among* ns, thank 

heaven I 

Ter. {to Butler, eagerly.) Take him off with you, force him 
off, I entreat you, Butler I 

But. {to lllo.) Field-Marshal ! a word with you ! 

[Leads him to the side-board, 

lllo. A thousand for one ; Fill — fill it once more up to the 
hrim. — To this gallant man's health ! 

Iso. {to Max. who all tlie while lias been staring on the paper 
trith fxed but vacant eyes.) Slow and sure, my noble brother ? — 
Hast parsed it all yet ? — Some words yet to go through? — ^Ha ? 
Max. {waking up as from a dream.) What am I to do ? 

Ter. {and at the same time Isdajii.) Sign your name. 

[Octavio directs his eyes on him with intense anxiety. 

Max. {returns tlie jxiper.) Let it stay till to-morrow. It is 
business — to-day I am not sufficiently collected. Send it to me 

Ter. Xay, collect yourself a little. 

Iso. Awake, man ! awake I — Come, thy signature, and have 
done with it I What ? Thou art the youngest in the whole com- 
pany, and wouldest be wiser than all of us together ? Look 
there I thy father has signed — we have all signed. 

Ter. {to Octavio.) Use your influence. Instruct him. 

Oct. My son is at the age of discretion. 

lllo. {leaves the service-cup on the sideboard.) What's the dis- 
pute ? 

Ter. He declines subscribing the paper. 

Max. I say, it may as well stay till to-morrow. 

Itlo. It can not stay. We have all subscribed to it — and so 
must vou. — You must subscribe. 


Max. lllo ; good-night I 

nio. Xo I You come not off so ! The Duke shall learn who 
arc his friends. [All collect round lllo and Max. 

Max. What my sentiments are towards the Duke the Duke 
knows, every one knot's — what need of this wild stuff? 

lUo. This if the thanks the Duke gets for his partiality to 


ItaJians and foreigners — ^Us Bohemians he holds for little better 
than dullards — nothing pleases him but what's outlandish. 

Ter. {in extreme embarrassment y to the Commanders^ u}u> a 
lllo's tcords give a sudden start, as preparing to resent them.) 
It is the wine that speaks, and not his reason. Attend not to 
him, I entreat you. 

Iso. {toith a bitter laugh.) Wine invents nothing: it only 

Illo. He who is not with me, is against me. Your tender con- 
sciences ! Unless they can slip out by a back-door, by a puny 
proviso — 

Ter. {interrupting him,) He is stark mad — don't listen to 
him ! 

lUo. {^raising his voice to tlie higJiest pitch.) Unless they can 
slip out by a proviso. What of the proviso ? The devil take 
this proviso ! 

Max. {has his attention roused and looks again into the paper.) 
What is there here then of such perilous import ? You make 
me curious — I must look closer at it. 

Ter. {in a low voire to Illo.) What are you doing, Illo? You 
arc ruining us. 

Tief, {to Kolalto.) Ay, ay ! I observed, that before we sat 
down to supper, it was read differently. 

Goetz. Why, I seemed to think so too. 

Iso. What do I care for that ? Where there stands other 
names, mine can stand too. 

Tief. Before supper there was a certain proviso therein, or 
short clause concerning our duties to the Emperor. 

But. {to me of the Commanders,) For shame, for shame ! Be- 
hink you. What is the main business here ? The question now 
8, whether we shall keep our General, or let him retire. One 
oust not take these things too nicely and over-scrupulously. 

Iso. {to one of the Generals.) — Did the Duke make any of 
hese provisos when he gave you your regiment ? 

Ter. {to Goetz.) Or when he gave you the office of army pur- 
< eyancer, which brings you in yearly a thousand pistoles I 

Illo. He is a rascal who makes us out to be rogues. If 
there be any one that wants satisfaction, let him say so, I am 
his man. 

Tief Softly, softly ! 'Twas but a word or two 

VOL. vn. 2 A 


Max. (having reatl tlte paper givet it bacJt.) Till t> 
therefore ! 

Hk). (statnmering tcith rage oitdfury, loan all eommand cm 
hiatidf, and presents tite pitper to Max, with one hand, and kit 
sword in the other.) Subscribe — Judai! 
Iso. Out upon you. Illo ! 

Oct. Ter. But. (aU toget/ier.) Down with the sword '. 
Max. {rushes on him suddenly and tlisanns him, then to Count 
Tertski/.) Take him ofl* to bed. 

[Max Uaccs tlie stage. Dio cursing and raving it heU 
hack by some of the queers, and amidst a univrrsal ro»- 
fuiion the curtain drops. 

ScEXE T. — A cluimlier in PiivoJami/ti's Mansion. It is Xish: 
Octavio Ficcoloniini. A valet de Ciuimbrc, icith Li^h'--. 
Oct. Ami wlien my sou comes in conduct him liiilitr 

U'hal is the hour ? 

Viitel. 'Tis on ihi; jioiiit of tnoruiu^ 

Oct. Set down the light. We mean uot to undress 

[E.rit YiiJcl. Octavio paces, musing, across the rliatnbrr. 
Max. I'icci/liimini enters undeserved, arid looks at An 
f'alhcr for sonic moiiieiils in silence. 

Mux. Art (hoti olFendcd with nie ? Hcaveu kuown 
Thill odioHS business was no fanit of mine. 
'Tis true, indeed, I saw thy signature. 
What thou hadst saucliuneil. should not, it might accm, 
Have come amiss to me. Uut — lis my nalure— 
Thou know'st that in such matters I uiu^t follow 
My own light, not another's. 

Oct. (sees lip to him anil rmbraccs him.) Follow it, 
follow it slill furthcT. iny Lesi son ! 
To-night, dear boy ! it hath more failhfully 
Guided thee than' the example of thy father. 

JV/rtJ. Declare thyself less darkly. 

Orr. I will do so. 

For after what hue taken placo this night, 


There must remain no tecratB 'twixt us two. 

\ Both seat themaetva. 
Max. Piccolomini ! what think'sl thou ol' 
The oath that waa sent round ibr eignalures ? 

Max. 1 hold it Ibr a thing of harmlew impon, 
Although 1 lovo not these set declaralions. 

Oct. And on no other ground hast thou refused 
The signature they fain had wrested from thee ? 

Max. It was a serious business 1 was absent — 

The tkiTair itself seemed not so urgent to me. 

Oct. Bo oyen. Max. Thou hadst then no suspicion ? 

Max. Suspicion I what suspicion ? Ifot tho least. 

Oct. Thank thy ^ood angel, Piccolomini : 
Ue drew thee back unconscious from the ah}-Ba. 

Max. I know not what thou meanest. 

Oct. I will tell thee. 

Fain would they have extorted from tliee, eon, 
The sanction uf thy name to villany ; 
Yea, with a singla fiouriah of thy pen, 
Uade thee renounce thy duty and thy honor ! 

Max. (rises.) Octavio ! 

Oct. Patience! Seat yourself. Much yet 

Hast thou to hear from me, friend ! — haat for yesra 
Lived in incomprehensible illusion. 
Bvfore thine eyes is treason drawing out 
As black a web as e'er was spun fur venom : 
A power of hell o'crclonds thy understanding. 
I dare no longer stand in silence — daro 
No longer sec thee wondering on in darkuess, 
"Sot pluck the bandage from thine eyes. 

Max. My father I 

Yet, ere thou speak'st, a moment's pause of thought 1 
If your disclosures should appear to be 
Conjectures only — and almost I fear 
They will be nothing further — spare them ! I 
Am not in that collected mood at present. 
That I could lislon to them quietly. 

Oct, The deeper cause thou hast to hat« this light, 
The more impatient cause have I, my son, 
To force it on thee. To the 


And wisdom of thy heart I could hftve tnulod thee 
With ralm assuraace — but 1 see the net 
Preparing — and it ia thy heart itself 
Alarms me for thine innocence — that seCTut, 

[Fixing his eye sieail/astiy on his KM'aJaee. 
Which thou concealesl, forces mine I'rom rae. 

Max- attempts to aitsicer, but hesitates, and easts his eyes U 
the ground, CTnbarrassed. 

Oct. {ajier a pause.) Know, then, they are duping thoa ! — a 
moBt foul game 
With thee and with us all — uay, hear mo calmly — 
The Duke even now ia playing. He assumes 
The mask, as if he would Ibrsake the army : 
And in this moment makes he preparations 
That army from the Emperor to steal. 
And carry it over to the enemy '. 

-Va.r. That low priest's legend I know well, but did not 
Expect to hear it from thy mouth. 

Oct. That mouth. 

From which thou hearest it at this present moment. 
Doth warrant thee that it is no prit'st's legend. 

Mar. How mere a maniac they supposed the I)uke ; 
What, he can meditate ? — the Duke '? — can dream 
That he can lure away full thirty thousand 
Tried troops and true, all honorable soldier* 
More than a thousand noblemeu among tht-m, 
From oaths, from duty, from their honor lure them. 
And make them all unanimous to do 
A deed that brand? them scoundrels ? 

Oct. Such a deed 

With such a front of infamy, the Duke 
Ko wise desires — what he requires of ns 
Bears a far gentler appellation. Nothing 
He wishes, but to give Ihe Empire peace. 
And so, because the Emperor hales this peace. 
Therefore the Duke— the Duke viiW force liirn lo it. 
All parts of the Empire will he pacifv, 
And for his trouble will retain in payment 
(What he lias already iu his gripe) — Bohemia! 


Max. Has he, Octavio, merited of us, 
That we — that we ehoulJ think so vilely of him ? 

Oct. What ice would think ia not the question here. 
The affair apeaka for itaelf— and clearest proofs ! 
Hear me, my son — 'lis not unknown to thee, 
In what ill credit with the Court we stand. 
But little dost thou know, or guess, what tricks, 
What base intrigues, what lying artifices. 
Have been employed — for this sole end — to sow 
Muliny in the camp ! All bands are looked — 
Looscfl all the bands, that link the officer 
To his lie^e Emperor, all that bind the soldier 
Alleclionately to the citizen. 
Lawless he xlands, and threateningly beleaguers 
The stale he's bound to guard. To such a height 
*Tis swoln, that at this hour the Emperor 
Before his armies — his own armies — trembles : 
Yea, in his capital, bis palace, fears 
The traitor's poniards, and is meditating 
To hurry off and hide his tender offspring — 
Not from the Swedes, not from the Lutherans — 
No ; from his own troops hide and hurry them 1 

Max. Cease, cease ! thou torturest, ahatter'st roe. I '. 
That oft we tremble at an empty terror ; 
But the false phantasm brings a real misery. 

Oct. It is no phantasm. An intestine war, 
or all the most unnatural and cruel, 
Will burst out into flames, if instantly 
We do not fly and stifle it. The Generals 
Arc many of them long ago won over ; 
The subalterns are vacillating — whole 
Regiments and garrisons are vacillating. 
To foreigners our strongholds are intrusted ; 
To that suspected Schafgntch is the whole 
Force of Silesia given up : to Tertslty 
Five regiments, foot and horse — to Isolaiii, 
To Illo, Kinsky, Butler, the best troops. 

Max. Likewise to both of us. 

Oct, Because the Duka 

Believes he has secured us — means to lure ua 


tjlill fnither on by splendid promiiM. 
To me he portions forth the prineedoma, Glktx 
And Sagan ; and too plain I we the angle 
With whioh he doabta not to eatch liue. 

ISax. Not nol 

1 tell thee — no ! 

Oct. open yet thine eyn ! 

And to what purpoee tbink'at thou he haa called as 
Hither to Pilien ? — to avail himielf 
or our advice? — O when did FriedUnd ever 
Need onr advice t — Be calm, and liaten to me; 
To sell onnelves are we called hither, and. 
Decline we that — to he hia hoetagea. 
Therefore doth noble (ralaa atand aloof 1 
Thjr &ther, too, then wonld'at not have aeen here. 
If higher duties had not held him fettered. 

Max. He makes no secret of it — needs make none — ■ 
That we're called hither for his sake — he owni it. 
He needs our aidance to mi.intain himself — 
He did so ninch fur us ; and 'tis but fair 
That we too ahoulil do somewhat now for him. 

Ott. And know'st thou what it is which we mnst do I 
That lllo's drunken mood betrayed it to thee. 
Bethink thyself — what hast thou heard, what seen ? 
Thfi counterfeited paper — the omiuion 
Of that particular clause, so full of meaning, 
Does it not prove, that they ^vould bind us down 
To nothing good ? 

JIfax. That connterfeitol paper 

Appears to me no other than a trick 
Of lllo's own device. These underhand 
Traders in great men's interests ever use 
fo urge and hurry all ihings to the extreme. 
They see the Duke at variance with the court. 
And fondly think to servo him, when they widen 
The breach irreparably. Trust mo, father. 
The Duke knows nothing of all this. 

Oct. It grieves me 

That I must dash to earth, that I must shatter 
A faith to specious ; but I may not span^ thee I 


For this is not a time for tenderness. 

Thou must take measures, speedy ones — must act. 

1 therefore will confess to thee, that all 

Which I've intrusted to thee now — that all 

Which seems to thee so unbelievable, 

That — ^yes, I will tell thee — (A pause.) Max. I I had it all 

From his own mouth — from the Duke's mouth I had it. 

Max. {in excessive agitcUion.) No ! — no ! — never I 

Oct. Himself confided to me ! 

What I, 'tis true, had long before discovered 
By other means — himself confided to me, 
That 'twas his settled plan to join the Swedes : 
And, at the head of the united armies, 
Compel the Emperor — 

Max. He is passionate, 

The Court has stung him — he is sore all over 
With injuries and afironts ; and in a moment 
Of irritation, what if he, for once, 
Forgot himself? He's an impetuous man. 

Oct. Nay, in cold blood he did confess this to me : 
And having construed my astonishment 
Into a scruple of his power, he showed me 
His written evidences — showed me letters, 
Both from the Saxon and the Swede, that gave 
Promise of aidance, and defm'd th' amount. 

Max. It can not be !— can not be I can not be ! 
Dost thou not see, it can not I 
Thou wouldest of necessity have shown him 
Such horror, such deep loathing — that or he 
Had tak'n thee for his better genius, or 
Thou stood'st not now a living man before me — 

Oct. I have laid open my objections to hini, 
Dissuaded him with pressing earnestness ; 

ut my ablwrrencCy the full sentiment 
Of my tchole heart — that I have still kept sacred 
To my own consciousness. 

Max. And thou hast been 

So treacherous ! That looks not like my father I 
I trusted not thy words, when thou didst tell me 

MN> TBB PTOoounma: 

EtU of him ; much leu c&n I now do it, 
Thftt thou oalamniateat thy own telf. 

Oct. 1 did not thrust myulf into hii aeenej. 

Max. Uprightneu meiiud hi* confidence. 

Oct. He vat no longer worthy of aiiuMiity. 

ISax. DisiimuUtion, sure, wu still lew wort^ 
or thee, OcttTio ! 

Oct. Gare I him k came 

To entertain a acruple of my honor T 

Afox. That he did not, eriao'd his coafidenMu 

Oct. Dear son, it is not always powible 
Still to preserve that infant pnrity 
Which the voice leaches in our inmoat heart. 
Still in alarm, forever on the watch 
Against the wilea of wicked men, e'en Yirtoe 
Will sometimes bear away her outward robea 
Soiled in the wrestle with Iniquity. 
This is the curse of every evil deed. 
That, propagating eiill. it brings forth evil. 
I do out cheat my better soul with sophisms : 
I but perlijrm iny ordi:rg ; the Emperor 
Prescribes my conduct to me. Dearest boy, 
Far better were it, doubtless, if we all 
Obeyed the heart at all times ; but so dmng. 
In this our present sojourn with had men, 
Vt'e must abandon many an honest object. 
'Tis now our call to Krve the Emperor, 
By what means he can best be served — the heart 
May whia[(er what it will — this is our call ! 

Ma^. It eecms a Ibing appointed, that to-day 
I shouli] not comprehend, not understand thee. 
The Duke ihou say'st did honestly pour out 
His heart to thee, but for an evil purpose ; 
And thou dJBhoneslly host cheated him 
For a good purpose ! Silence, I entreat thee — 
My IVieud thou stealest not from me — 
Let me not lose my father '. 

Oct- {suppressing reseHtment.'f At yet ihou know'st 
my son. I have 
Yet somewhat to disclose to thee. I4ft*^ o / 


Buke Fried! and 
llalh m&de his preparations. He rulies 
UjKm his stars. He deems us unprovided. 
Arid thinks to fall upon ua by surpriee. 
Yea, ill his dream of hope, he grasps already 
The golden circle in his hand. He errs. 
We too have been in action — he but grasps 
His evil fate, moat evil, most mysterious ! 

Max. nothing rash, jny sire ! By all that's good 
l<ct me invoke thee — no precipitation ! 

Oct. With light tread stole he on his evil way, 
With light tread Vengeance stole on after him. 
Unseen she alunds already, dark behind him — 
But one step more — he ahudders in her grasp ! 
Thou hast seen Q,ucstenboTg with me. As yet 
Thou know'st but his ostensible conuniasioii ; 
He brought with him a private one, my son I 
And that was lor me only. 

•Vuz. May I know it ? 

Oct. {seizes the patent.) Max.! [Apautti 

In this disclosure place I in thy hands 

The Empire's welfare and thy father's life 
Dear to thy inmost heart is Wallenstciii : 
A powerfid tie of love, of veneration. 
Hath knit thee to hira from thy earliest youth. 
Thou nourishest the -wish. — let me still 
Anticipate thy loitering confidence '. 
The liope thou nourishest to knit thyself 
Yet closer to him 

Max. Father 

Oct. my son, 

I trust thy heart undoubtingly. But am I 
Equally sure of thy collectedness ? 
Wilt thou be able, with calm eounlcuance, 
To enter this man's presence, when that 1 
Have trusted to thee his whole liite ? 

M'rz. According 

As thou dost trust me, father, with his crime. 

\Oaavio takes apa}Kr out of hit escritoire, arid givtt it 
to him. 


Oct. But for the present moment, til 
Of Hungary may safely join the army, 
Is the command assigned to me. 

Max. And ihi 

Dost thou believe, that thou wilt teax it 
never hope it I — Father I father ! fath 
An inauspicious office is enjoined thee. 
This paper here — this ! and wilt thim ei 
The mighty in the middle of his host, 
Surrounded by his thousands, him would 
Disarm — degrade ! Thou art lost, both 

Ckt. What hazard I incur thereby, I It 
In the great hand of God I stand. The 
Will cover with his shield the Imperial h 
And shatter, in his wrath, the work of da 
The Emperor hath true servants still ; ai 
Here in the camp, there are enough brav 
Who for the good cause will light gallant 
The faithful have been warned — the daa 
Are closely watched. I wait but the first 
And then immediately 


Will be a benefaction to him rather 

Than punishment. But the first open step — 

Max. What callest thou such a step ? A wicked step 
Ne*er will he take ; but thou might'st easily, 
Yea, thou hast done it, misinterpret him. 

Oct, Nay, howsoever punishable were 
Duke Friedland^s purposes, yet still the steps 
Which he hath taken openly, permit 
A mild construction. It is my intention 
To leave this paper wholly unenforced 
Till some act is committed which convicts him 
Of a high treason, without doubt or plea, 
And that shall sentence him. 

Max. But who the judge ? 

Oct, Thyself 

Max. Forever, then, this paper will lie idle. 

Oct, Too soon, I fear, its powers must all be proved. 
After the counter-promise of this evening. 
It can not be but he must deem himself 
Secure of the majority with ws ; 
And of the army's general sentiment 
He hath a pleasing proof in that petition 
Which thou deliveredst to him from the regiments. 
Add this too— I have letters that the Rhinegrave 
Hath changed his route, and travels by forced marches 
To the Bohemian Forest. What this purports. 
Remains unknown ; and; to confirm suspicion. 
This night a Swedish nobleman arrived here. 

Max. 1 have thy word. Thou'lt not proceed to action 
Before thou hast convinced me — me myself 

Oct. Is it possible ? Still, after all thou know'st, 
Canst thou believe still in his innocenro ? 

Max. {with cnthusiastn.) Thy judgment may mistake ; my 
heart can not. 

[Moderates his voice and manner. 
These reasons might expound thy spirit or mine ; 
But they expound not Friedland — I have faith : 
For as he knits his fortunes to the stars, 
Even so doth he resemble them in secret. 
Wonderful, still inexplicable courses 1 


Tnut me, they da him wiang. All will ba 
These smokes, ftt onoe, will kindle into flam 
The edges of this blaek and atonny cloud 
mil brighten suddenly, sod we shsU Tiew 
Th« Unapproichable glide oat in splendor. 
Oct. I will await it 

ScBMB II. — Octavia and Max. aa htfon. Ta them xHe TUM 
of the Ckamher. 

Oa. How now, then ? 

Vai. A despatch is *t the door- 

Oet. So early ? From whom comee he then t Who is it ? 

Vat. That he tefused to tell me. 

Oct. Lead him in : 

And hark you — let it not transpiie. 

[Exit Vaiet — tke Comet steps in. 
Ha ! Comet — ia it roii 7 and from Count Galas i 
Give me your letters. 

Cor. The Lieuten ant-General 

Trusted it not to lettetB. 

Oct. And what is it ? 

Cor. He bade me tell yon — Dare I apeak openly here ? 

Oct. My son knows all. 

Cor. We have him. 

Oct. Whom ? 

Cor. Seuna. 

The old negotiator. 

Oct. {eagerUj.) And you have him ? 

Cor. \a the Bohemian Forest Captain Mohrhraodt 
Found and secured him yeeter moniiug early : 
He was proceeding then to Hi'^uspur^. 
And on him were despatchea for the Swede. 

Oct, And the ilcspatchea 

Cor. The Lieutenant-General 

Sent them that instant to Vicunii, and 
T)ie prisoner with them. 

Oct. This is, indeed, a tiding ! 

That fellow is a precious casket to us, 
Iaelo«ing weighty things — ^Was much found on him ? 


Cor. I think, six packets, with Count Tertsky's arms. 
Oct. None in the Duke's owu hand ? 
Cor, Not that I know. 

Oct, And old Sesina ? 

Cor. He was sorely frightened, 

When it was told him he must to Vienna. 
But the Count Altringer hade him take heart, 
Would he hut make a full and free confession. 

Oct. Is Altringer then with your Lord ? I heard 
That he lay sick at Linz. 

Cor. These ihree days past 

He's with my master, the Lieutenant-General, 
At Frauemburg. Already have they sixty 
Small companies together, chosen men ; 
Respectfully they greet you with assurances, 
That they are only waiting your commands. 

Oct. In a few days may great events take place. 
And when must you return ? 

Cor. I wait your orders. 

Oct. Remain till evening. 
[ Carnet signifies his assent and obelsaTice, and is going 

No one saw you — ha ? 
Cor, No living creature. Through the cloister wicket 
The Capuchins, as usual, let me in. 

Oct. Go, rest your limbs, and keep yourself concealed. 
I hold it probable, that yet ere evening 
I shall despatch you. The development 
Of this aflair approaches : ere the day, 
That even now is dawning in the heaven, 
£ie this eventful day hath set, the lot 
That must decide our fortunes will be drawn. 

[Exit Corner 

Scene III. — Octavio and Max. Piccolomini. 

Oct. Well — and what now, son? All will soon be clear ; 
For all, I'm certain, went through that Sesina. 

Max. {wlio through the whole of the foregoing scene has U^n 
in a visible struggle of feelings, at length starts as one resolved.) 
I will procure me light a shorter way. Farewell. 

B6e THx picooLoion: 

Oct. Where now ? — ^Rem&ia bene. 

Max. To the Duke. 

Oct. {alarmed.) What 

Max. {rttuming^ If thou but balim ad thmt I dia] 
A part in this thy pl»y — 
Thou hut nuBcaLculated on me grieTonsly. 
Uy way miut be itraight on. True with the tongoa. 
False with the heart — I may not, can not be : 
Kor can I sufltir that a man should ttnst mtt-^ 
As his friend trust me — and then lull my conseianee 
Witb such low pleas as tbeae :-~-" I aak'd him not— 
Us did it all at bis own hazard — and 
Hy mouth has never lied to him." — No, no ! 
What • friend takes me for, that I must be : 
• — I'll to the Duke ; ere j«t this day is ended 
Will I demand of him that be do save 
His pood name from the world, and with one stride 
Break through and rend this fine-spun web of youn. 
He can, he will ; — /slill am bis believer. 
Yet I'll not pledge myself, but that those letters 
May furnish you, perchance, with proofs against faim. 
How far luay not this Terisky have proceeded— 
What may not he himeell'too have permitted 
Himself to do, to snare the enemy, 
The laws of war excu»ng ? Nothing, save 
His own mouth shall convict him — nothing less ! 
And face tu face will 1 go quealioa him. 

Oct. Thou wilt ? 

j\lax. I will, as sure as this heart boftts, 

Oct. 1 have, indeed, miscalculated on thee. 
I calculated on a prudent son, 
Who wuuld have bless'd the hand beneficent 
That plucked him back from the abyss — and lo I 
A fascinated being I discover. 
Whom his two eves hcrool, whom passion wiMen, 
Whom not the broadest light of noon can heal. 
Go, question him !^Be mad enough, I pray thee 
The purpose of thy father, of thy Emperor, 
Go, give it up free booty : — Force me, drive me 
To an open breach before the time. And now. 


Now that a rairaclo of heaven had guarded 
My secret purpose even to this hour, 
Arid laid to sleep Biupicion's piercing' eyes, 
Let me have lived to see that mine own son, 
With frantic enterpriae, annihilates 
My tuilsome labors and Btate policy. 

Max. Ay — thia atate policy ! huw I eurso it ! 
Yuu will some time, with your state policy, 
Compel him to the measure : it may happen, 
Because yo are determined that he is guilty, 
(iuilty yo'U nwie him. All retreat cut ofl", 
You close up every outlet, hem him in 
Narrower and narrower, till at length ye force him— 
Yes, ye — ye force him, in his desperaliou. 
To set fire to hia prison. Father I Father ! 
That never ean end well — it can not — will nol I 
And let it be decided as it may, 
I see with hoding heart the near approach 
Of an ill-starred, unblest catastrophe. 
For this great monarch-spirit, if he fall, 
Will drag a world into the ruin with him. 
And as a ship (that midway on the ocean 
Takes lire) at once, and with a thunder-burst 
Ijxplodcs, and with itself shoots out its crew 
In smoke and ruin bi-twixt sea and heaven ; 
So will he, falling, draw down in his fall 
All us, who're fixed and mortised to his fortune. 
Deem of it what thou wilt ; but pardon me. 
That I must bear me on in my own way 
All must remain pure betwixt him and me ; 
And, ere the daylight dawns, it must be known 
Which I must lose — my father, or my friend. 

[During his exit the mrtain drapt. 

THB FiocoLomn: 

BcBNK I. — A room fitted vtpfor aUnlogiail laiort, a 
tcith ceUitiat charts, with globet, teUacopa, g 
other mathematical inUrumeiat . — Seven eolmaaljigunx, rtfn- 
senting the ^anett, each vrith a transparent ttaroj" a diffemi 
color on its head, stand in a lemicirde in the backgromstd, m 
that Man and Saturn are nearest the eye. — 7^ remainder 
of tht Scene, and its disposition, is given in the Fourth Seeme 
of the Second AxA. — Tliere must bt a curtain aver tMeJtgmra, 
which may be dropped, and conceal them on oeeastams. 

[IntheFiJtk Scene of this Airl it must be dropped ; but im the 
Seventh Scene, it must be again dnrn up wholly or iu part.l 

WaUensteia at a black tahle, on ichick a ^leeulutm Attmit^ 
cum is described with chalk. Seni is taking o/ttrratioiu 
throagh a tcindow. 
Wal. All well — and now let it be ended, Seni. — Come 

The dawn cvimmences, an<l Uan rules the hour. 

We must give o'er the operation. Come, 

We kaow enough. 

Seiii. Your Highness must permit me 

Just to contemplate Venus. She's now ri»iig : 

Like as a sun, so shines she in the east. 
Wal. She is at present in her perigee, 

Anil Ehoots down now hei strongest influence*. 

[Contemplating the figure on tht taiU 

Auspicious aspect ! fateful in conjunction. 

At length the mighty three corradiate ; 

And the two stars of blessing, Jupitet 

And Venus, take between them the mahgnant 

Slyly- malicious !Uais, and thus compel 

Into my serviee that old mischief-founder ; 

For long h'e viewed me hoslilely, and ever 

With beam oblique, or perpendicular, 

Now in the Q,uartile. now in the Secundan. 

Shot his red lightnings at my slare, disturbing 

Their blessed influences and sweet aspects- 

Now they hare conquered the old enemy. 

And bring him in the heavens a prisoner to me 


Smr {iclio lias eerme downfrom the window^ And in a comei 
house, your Uighneu — think of that i 
That makes each influence of double strcugth. 

Wal. And Bun and moon, too, in the Sextile aspect, 
The soft light with the veh'nient — bo I lore it. 
Sol is the heart, Luna the head of heaven, 
Bold be the plan, fiery the execution. 

Seni. And both the mighty Lumina by no 
Halelicus afTronlcd Lo [ Satuinua, 
Innocuous, powerless, in cadente Dome. 

Wal, The empire of SaturnuB is |;ono by : 
Lord of the secret birth of things is he ; 
Wilhin the lap of earth, and in the depths 
Of the im agin alio II doniinateB ; 
And his are all things that eschew the light. 
The time is o'er of brooding and contrivance : 
Fur Jupiter, the lustrous, lordelh now. 
And the dark work, complete of preparation. 
He draws by force into the realm of light. 
Now must we hasten on to action, ere 
The s<-heme, and moBt auspicious positure 
Paris o'ei my head, and takes once more its flight ' 
For the heavens Journey still, and sojourn not. 

[ There are knocks at the door. 
There's some one knocking there. See who it is. 

Trr/ski/. {from u-it/wut.) Open, and let me in. 

Wal. Ay— 'tis Tertsky. 

What is there of such urgence ? We are busy. 

Ter. (fimn icif.ltout.) Lay all aside at present, I entreat you. 
It suflurs no delaying. 

Wal. Open, Seni I 

[ While Seni opens tite doors fur Terlsky, Wallenstein dratoi 
the curtain ofcr tite figures. 

Ter. [enters.) Hast thou already heard it ? lie is taken. 
Ralas has given him up to the Emperor. 

[ Seni draws off the black table and exit. 

Scene II. — Wallenstein, Count Tertsky. 
Wal. (to Tertsky.) Who has been taken? — Who is given up? 
Ter. The man wht knows our secrets, who knowB every 

np THB i>iocx>u>iiiin: 

Negotiation yiih Um Swads and Sksou, 

Tbrongh whow hands all and tray thing has pmed 

Wal. {drawing back.) Nay, not SMnaT— Sa.j, Not I a 

7ir. All on hia road for Bc^enipiiig to the 8w«da 
He waa plunged down upon by Galaa' agent. 
Who had been long in ambnah, Inilditg for him. 
There muit have been found on him my whole paekst 
To Tbur, to Kinsky, to Oxenatini, to Aniheim : 
All Ibia is in their handa ; th«y bare now an insight 
lutothe whole — our raeunies, and oar motires. 

Scene III. — lb tkem etUen Ula. 

Hlo. (to Tertsty.) Has he heard it! 

Ter. He has heard it. 

n/o. (10 Walleiiifrin] Thinkesl thou still 
To make tby peace with the Ero^'ror, to regain 
His confidence ? — E'en were it now thy wish 
To abandon alt thy plans, yet Btil] tbey kuow 
What thou bast wished ; then forwards thou must preaa t 
Retreat is now no longer in thy power. 

Tcr. They have documents against us, and in hands. 
Which show beyond all power of con t rait Jction — 

Will. Of my handwriting — no iota. Thee 
1 puiiiah for tl>y lies. 

H/o. And thoH bt^lievest. 

That what this man. that what thy sister's husband. 
Did iu thy name, will not stand on thy rcck'niog? 
His word miiBt pass for thy word with the Swede, 
Ami not with those that hate thee at Vienna. 

Ter. In writing thou gsv'st nothing — But bethink thee. 
How far thou venturedet by word of mouth 
With this Sesina ? And will be be silent ? 
ir be can save himself by yielding up 
Thy secret purposes, will he retain them ? 

Hlo. Thyself dost not conceive it possible ; 
And Eini-c they now have evidence authentic 
How for thou bast already gone, speak ! — tell ua, 
What art tliou waiting for ? thou canst no longer 


Keep t!ij command ; and beyond hope of reKue 
Thou'rt lost, il' thou resign'st it. 

Wal. In the army 

Lies my security. The army will not 
Abandon mo. Whatever they may know. 
The power is mine, and they must gulp it down — * 
And subatituto I i^aution tor my fealty, 
They must be Batisfied, at least appear bo. 

Jllo. The army, Duke, is thine now — for (his moment^ 
'Tia thine : but think with terror on the slow, 
The quiet power of time From open violence 
The attachment of thy soldiery secures thee 
To-day — to-morrow ; but grant's! thou them a reepilo. 
Unheard, unseen, they'll undermine that lovu 
Oil which thou now dost feel so firm a footing, 
With wily theft will draw away from thee 
One after th' other 

Wal. 'Tis a cursed accident ! 

Ilh. O, I will call it a most bleswd one. 
If it work on thee ag it ought to do, 
Hurry theo on to action — to decision. 
The Swedish General 

Wal. He's arrived! Know'it thou 
What his commission is 

lllo. To thee alone 

Will he intrust the purpose of his comin<;. 

WfU. A cur»!il, cursed accident! Yes, yes, 
Kesiiia knows too much, and won't be silent. 

Ter. He's a Itohemian fugitive and rebel, 
His neck is forfeit. Can he save himself 
At thy coal, think you he will scruple it ? 
And if they put him to the torture, will he. 
Will >ie, that daslardlin^, have strength enoufrh 

Wal. {htlinl/ioiiglu.) Their conlidince is lost— irreparably I 
And I may act what way I will, 1 shall 
Be and remain forever in their thought 
A Irailor to my couniry. How sincerely 
rioever I return back to my duty. 
It will no longer help me 

Bh. Ruia thee. 


Th&t it will du ! Not thy fidelity, 

Thy weaknew will be deenied the lole oeeuaoD — 

Wal. ( pacing up and down in extreme agitatioH.) Wvt 
I mtut realize it now in euneat. 
Because I toyed too freely with the tbonght ! 
Accuraed ho who dallia with * den. I 
And miuit I — I muU realise it now — 
Mow, while I have the power, it mtut take {due? 

lUo. Now-~now — ere they ^an waid and pury it ! 

Wal. (looking at the paper of »ffnature%.) 1 hsTe tha G«i 
erala' word — a written promiie . 
Max. Ficcolomioi stand* not hefe — bow'a that? 

Ter. It wa* he fancied 

lUo. Mere ■elf-wiUednen. 

Then needed no inch thing 'twixt him and you. 

Wal. He is quite right — there needeth no such thin^ , 
The regiments, loo, deny to march for Flanders — 
Have Bent ine in a paper of remonstrance. 
And openly resist the Imperial ordets. 
The firet step to revolt's already taken. 

Hlo. Believe me, thou will find it far more eaay 
To lead ihem over to the enemy 
Than to the Eipanianl. 

Wal. I will heat, however. 

What the Swede has to say to me. 

I/lo. {eagerly to Terlskij.) Uo, call him I 
He stands without the door in waiting. 

Wid. Stay ! 

Stay yet a tittle. It hath taken me 
All by surprise, — it came loo quick upon me ; 
'Tis wholly novel, that au accident. 
With its dark lordship, and blind agency, 
Should force me on with it. 

lUo. First hear him only. 

And after weigh it. [Exeunt Ttrttky ami Bio. 

ScESE rV'. — Wallmsieifi. 
Wal. {in soliloqwj.) Is it possible ? 
U't BO ? I can no longer what I would ! 
No longer draw back at my liking ! i 


Must do the deed, because I tJiought of it, 

And fed this heart here with a dream ! Because 

I did not scowl temptation from my presence, 

Dallied with thoughts of possible fulfiiment, 

Commenced no movement, lefl all time uncertain, 

And only kept the road, the access open ' 

By the great God of Heaven ! it was not 

My serious meaning, it was ne'er resolve. 

I but amused myself with thinking of it. 

The free-will tempted me, the power to do 

Or not to do it. — Was it criminal 

To make the fancy minister to hope, 

To fill the air with pretty toys of air, 

And clutch fantastic sceptres moving t'ward me ? 

Was not the will kept free ? Beheld 1 not 

The road of duty close beside me — ^but 

One little step, and once more 1 was in it ! 

Where am I ? Whither have 1 been transported ? 

Ko road, no track behind me, but a wall. 

Impenetrable, insurmountable, obedient to the spells I muttered 

And meant not-^— my own doings tower behind me. 

[PauseSt o,nd remains in deep thought. 
A punishable man I seem, the guilt, 
Try what I will, I can not roll off from me ; 
The equivocal demeanor of my life 
Bears witness on my prosecutor's party ; 
And even my purest acts from purest motives 
Suspicion poisons with malicious gloss. 
Were I that thing, for which I pass, that traitor, 
A goodly outside I had sure reserved, 
Had drawn the cov'rings thick and double round mo, 
Been calm and chary of my utterance. 
But being conscious of the innocence 
Of my intent, my uncorrupted will, 
I gave way to my humors, to my passion : 
Bold were my words, because my deeds were not. 
Now every planless measure, chance event. 
The threat of rage, the vaunt of joy and triumph. 
And all the May-games of a heart o'erfiowing, 

ST4 THE picoouumn* 

inil they connect, &nd weaA them nil togaAor 

Into one ynh of tieuoa ; all vilt be plan, 

Uy eye ne'er absent from the ikr«ff' nuik. 

Step tracing Btep, each atep a polttto p ro gr — ; 

And out of all they'll fabrieate a charge 

So Bpecioni, that I most myself stand dumb. 

I ain caught in my own net, and only force, 

Naught but a sudden raU can Uberate me. [l*aMMS ogot*. 

Hov else I since that the heart's untuasKd instinct 

Impelled me to the daring deed, which now 

Necessity, self-preaerration, orden. 

Stem is the on-lixik of Necessity, 

Not without shudder many a hnman hand 

Grasps the mysterious um of destiny. 

Hy deed was mine, remaiaiDg in my bMom, 

Oiice sufiered to escape from its safe corner 

AVithin the heart, ila niirwry and birth-place, 

Sent forth into the foret^rn, it belongs 

Forever to those ely malicious powers 

Whom aoTer art of man conciliated. 

{Paces in agitaUon through the Chamber, then pataes 

and, after tlie pause, breaks out again into a>idiit< 

What IB thy enterprise ? thy aim ? thy object ? 
Hast hnncsdy couli-sscd it to thyself? 
Power scaled on a qiiict throne thou'dst shake. 
Power on an ancient consecrated throne, 
t^trong ill poEsession, founded in old custom ; 
Power by a thousand tough and stringy roots 
Fixed to the people's pious nursery-faith. 
This, this will be no strife of strength with strength. 
That feared I not. I brave each combatant. 
Whom I can look on, Hxiug eye to eye, 
Who full himself of courage kindles courage 
In me loo. 'Tie a foe invisible, 
The which I fear — a fearful enemy. 
Which in the human heart opposes ine. 
By its coward fear alone made fearful to me. 
Nut that, which full of life, instinct with power. 
Hakes known its present being, that is not 


The tnie, the perilously formidable. 
no ! it is the common, the quite common, 
The thing of an eternal yesterday, 
What ever was, and evermore returns, 
Sterling to-morrow, for to-day 'twas sterling I 
For of the wholly common is man made. 
And custom is his nurse ! Woe then to them. 
Who lay irreverent hands upon his old 
House furniture, the dear inheritance 
F*rom his forefathers. For time consecrates ; 
And what is gray with age becomes religion. 
Be in possession, and thou hast the right, 
And sacred will the many guard it for thee ! 

[ To tlie Page, %vlw here enters. 
The Swedish officer ? — Well, let him enter. 

{The Page exit, Wallenstein fixes his eye in deep thougfU 
on tJie door. 
Yet is it pure — -as yet ! — the crime has come 
Not o'er this threshold yet — so slender is 
The boundary that divideth life's two paths. 

Scene V. — Wallenstcin and Wrangel. 

Wal. (after Jiaving fixed a searching look on hi7n.) Your 
name is Wrangel ? 

IFran. Gustave Wrangel, General 

Of the Suderrnauian Blues. 

WaL It was a Wrangel 

W^ho injured me materially at Stralsund, 
And by his brave resistance was the cause 
Of th' opposition which that sea-port made. 

Wran. It was the doing of the element 
With which you fought, my lord ! and not my merit. 
The Baltic Neptune did assert his freedom, 
The sea and land, it seemed, were not to serve 
One and the same, 

Wed. (makes a motion fitr him to take a seat, and seats him- 
self.) And where are your credentials ? 
Come you provided with full powers. Sir General ? 

Wran. There are so many scruples yet to solve 

WM THE FioooLcnniii: 

f¥al. (Having read the eredentialt.) An sble lMmt\~-kj^ 
he is a prudent, 
Intelligeut muter, whom you aerra, Sii G«iwnl t 
The Cluiicellor write* me, that fae but fulfils 
Ilia Ute departed Sovereign's own idea 
In helping me to the Bohemian crown. 

Wran. He Mya the truth. Our great king, now in heavaB, 
Did ever deem most highly of youi G-race's 
Fre-eminent lenie and military genius ; 
And always the comouuidiag Intollect, 
Ho said, should have command, and be the king. 

Wal. Yes, he migkt say it safely. — General Wrangtd, 

( Taking hit hand affectimtatdff. 
Gome, fair and open — ^Trust me, I was always 
A Swede at heart. Ey I that did you experience 
Both in Sile«ia and at Nuremburg ; 
I had you oftLMi in my power, and let you 
Always slip out by some back door or other. 
'Tis this for which the Court con ne'er forgive me. 
Which drives me to this present etep : and since 
Our iiiloresis bo run in one direction, 
E'en lei m Iiave a thorough confidence 
Each in the other. 

Wran. ConRdence will come, 

Has each but only tirst security. 

Wal. The Chancellor still, I see, does not quite trust mo ; 
And, I confess— the gain does not lie wholly 
To ray advantage — Without doubt he thinks 
If I can play false with the Emperor, 
Who is my sovereign, I can do the like 
With th' enemy, and that the one too were 
Sooner to be forgiven me than the other. 
Is not this your opinion too, l^ii General 1 

W-ran. 1 have here an office merely, no opinion. 

Wai. The Emperor hath urged me to the nttermoat 
I can no longer honorably serve him. 
yor my security, in self-defence, 
1 take this hard step, which my conscience blames. 

Wran. That I believe. So far would no one go 
Who was n«t forced to it. \.Aftfr a jtaum 


What may have impelled 
Your princely Highness in this wise to act 
Toward your Sovereign Lord and Emperor, 
BeKems not ui to expound or criticize. 
The Swede is fighting for his good old eaute, 
With his good iword and conecience. This concurrenM, 
Thia opportunity, is in our favor. 
And all advantages in war are lawful. 
We lake what offers without questioning ; 
And if alJ have ils duo and just proportions 

Wal. Of what then are ye doubting ? Of my will ? 
Or of my power ? I pledged me to the Chmcctlur, 
Would ha trust me with sixteen thouiand men, 
That I would instantly go over to them 
With eighteen thousand of the Emperor's troops, 

Wran. Your Graoo is known to bu a mighty war-chiaft 
To be a second AttJla and Pyrrhus. 
'Tis talked of still with fresh astonishment, 
How some years past, beyond alt human ikith 
You called an army forth, like ■ creation ; 
But yet 

Wal. But yet ? 

Wran. But still the Chancellor thinks, 

It might yet be an easier thing from nothing 
To call forth sixty thousand men of battle. 
Than to persuade one sixtieth part of them — 

Wtd. What now ? Out with it, friend ? 

Wran. To break their oaths. 

Wal. And he thinks so ? — He judges like a Swede, 
And like a Protestant. You Lutherans 
Fight for your Bible, You are int'rested 
About the cause ; and with your hearts you follow 
Your banners, — Among you, whoe'er deserts 
To theenemy, hath broken covenant 
With two Lords at one time. We've no such fancies. 

Wran. Great God in Heaven ! Have then the people heir 
No houae and home, no (ireBidc, no altar 7 

JVal. I will explain that to you, how it stands — 
The Austrian has a country, ay, and loves it, 
And has good cause to love it — but this ariny, 
VOL. vn. 2 B 

That calls itself th' Impoml, tliu that boi»M 
Here in Bohemia, this has aoae — no eoontiy; 
This is an outcait of all foreign lands, 
UuoUimed by town or tribe, to whom fadooga 
Nothing, except the nnivenal bod. 

WroH. But then the nobles and the offieon 1 
Such a desertion, inch a felony. 
It is without example, my Lord Duk<t, 
In the world's history. 

Wal. They are all mine- 

Mine unconditionally, mine on all terma. 
Not me, your own eyes yon must trust. 

[^e give» Ahs the paper containiMg the writUn oati 
Wrangel reads it through, and having read it, taj 
it on the table, remaiiiing lilent. 

So then ? 
Now comprehend you ? 

Wrati. Comprehend who can ! 

My Lord Duke ; I will let the mask drop — yes ! 
I've full powers for a final settlement. 
The Rhinegrave stands but four days' inarch from here 
With fifteen thousand men, and only waits 
For orders to proceed and join your army. 
Those orders / give out, immediately 
We're compromised. 

Wal. What aaka the Chancellor ? 

WfaH. (considerately.) Twelve regiments, every mno a Swetlt 
— my head 
The warmnty — and all might prove at last 
Only false play 

Wal. {starling.) Sir Swede ! 

Wran. (calmly proceeding.) Am therefore forced 
T' insist thereon, that he do formally. 
Irrevocably break with th' Emperor, 
Else not a Swede is trusted to Duke Fricdland. 

Wal. Come, brief and open ! what is the demand ? 

Wran. That he forthwith disarm the Spanish rcg'm^U 
AtUched to th' Emperor, that he seize Prague. 
And to the Swedes give up that city, with 
The strong pass Egra. 


Wat. That is much indeed ! 

Prague ! — Egra's granted — But — but Prague ! — 'T won't do. 
I give you every security 

Which you may ask of me in common reason — 
But P>igue — Bohemia — these, Sir General, 
I can myself protect. 

Wran. We doubt it not. 

But 'tis not the protection that is now 
Our sole concern. We want security, 
That we shall not expend our men and money 
All to no purpose. 

Wal. Tis but reasonable. 

Wran. And till we are indemnified, so long 
Stays Prague in pledge. 

Wal. Then trust you us so little ? 

Wran. {rising.) The Swede, if ho would treat well with the 
Must keep a sharp look-out. We have been called 
Over the Baltic, we have saved the empire 
From ruin — with our best blood have we sealed 
The liberty of faith, and gospel truth. 
But now already is the benefaction 

No longer felt, the load alone is felt. 

Ye look askance with evil eye upon us. 
As foreigners, intruders in the empire. 
And would fain send us, with some paltry sum 
Of money, home again to our old forests. 
No no ! my Lord Duke I no ! — it never was 
For Judas' pay, for chinking gold and silver. 
That we did leave our king by the great Stone.* 
No, not for gold and silver have there bled 
So many of our Swedish nobles — neither 
Will we, with empty laurels for our payment, 
Hoist sail for our countr)'. Citizens 
Will we remain upon the soil, the which 
Our monarch conquered for himself, and died. 

* A great stone near Liltzen, since called the Swede's Stone, the body 
of their great king having lieeu found at the foot of it, after the battle io 
which he lost his life. 


Wal. Help to keep down the common enemy, 
And the fair border land must needs be youn. 

Wratt. But when the common enemy liea vaiiqiiiahed. 
Who knils together our new friendBhip then I 
Wo know, Duke Friedlimd ! though perhaps the Swede 
Ought not t'have known it, that you carry on 
Secret negotiations with the Saxons. 
Who is our wairanly, that uv are not 
The Facrifices in those articles 
Which 'tis thought needful to conceal from us ? 

Wal. (I'ises.) Think you of something better.Gustave Wixngri 
Of Prague no more. 

Wran. Here my commission ends. 

Wal. Surrender up to you my capital I 
Far liever would I face about, and step 
Bark to my Emperor. 

Wran. If lime yet permits 

Wal. That lies with me, oven now at any hour, 

Wratt. Some days ago, perhaps. To-day, no longer, 
Ni) longer since Sesina i'i a pri»>ncr. 

I WaJleiisleiti ii struck, and siUiieta 
My Lord Duke, hear me — We hulieve that you 
At present do mean lioiiorably liy us. 
Since yesffrdai/ we're euro of that — and now 
This paper warrants fur llie troops, there's nothing 
Stands in the way of our full confidence, 
Prague shall not part ns. Hear! The Chancellor 
Uonlents himself with Albstadt, to your Grace 
He gives up Ralsciiin and the narrow side. 
Itul Egra above all must open to us, 
Ere we can think of any jimclion. 

Wal You. 

You therefore must I trust, and you not me ? 
1 will eonsiiler of yonr proposition. 

Wran. 1 must entreat, that your consideratioQ 
Oecupy not loo long a lime Already 
Has this negotiation, my Lord Duke ! 
Crept on into the second year. If nothing 
Is seltleil this time, will the Chancellor 
Consider it SB broken otT forever. 


Wal. Ye presa me hard. A measure such as this. 

Ought to be thought of. 
Wran. Ay ! but think of this too, 

Th&t sudden action only can procure it 
Success — think first of this, your Highness. 

[Exit Wrnngd. 

Scene VI. — WalUmtein, Tertshj, and lUo (re-enter). 

lllo. Is't all right 7 

Ter. Are you compromised 7 

lllo. This Swede 

Went smiling from you. Yes! you're compremiecd. 

Will. As y-it is nothing settled : and (well weighed) 
I feci myself inclined to leave it go. 

Ter. How 7 What is that 7 

Wal. Come on me what will come, 

The doing evil to avoid an evil 
Can not be good ! 

Ter. Nay, but bethink yoii, Duke 7 

Wal. To live upon the mercy of these Swedes ! 
Of these proud-hearted Swedes, I could not bear it. 

lllo. Goest thou as fugitive, as mendicant 7 
BringeBt thou not more to them than thou receivest 7 

Scene VII. — To these enter the Countess Tertsky 

Wal. Who sent for you ? There is no business here 
For women. 

Cmtn. 1 am come to bid you joy. 

Wal. Use thy authority, Tertsky, bid her go. 

Coun. Come I perhaps too early 7 I hope not. 

Wal. Set not this tongue upon me, 1 culreat you. 
You know it is the weapon that destroys me. 
I am routed, if a woman but attack me. 
1 can not trafTic in the trade of words 
Wiih that unreasoning sex. 

Coun. I had alreailv 

Given the Bohemians a king. 

Wal. {sarcastically.) They have ooe^ 
in consequence, no doubt. 

gm THs picxx>Loiain: . 

Coun.{lotheotfters.) H& ! what new ■cmple ? 

Ter. The Duke will not. 

Coun. He teiil not what he tmat ! 

lUo. It lies with you now. Try. For I am sUeneed. 
Aben folks begiu to talk to me of conBcieuce, 
And of fidelity. 

Coun. How! then, when &11 

Lay in the far olT diitance, when the road 
Stretched out before thine eyca interminably, 
Then badst thou courage and reeolve ; and now. 
Now that the dieani is being realized, 
The purpose ripe, the issue ascertained, 
Doflt thou begin to play the dastard now ? 
Planned merely, 'tis a comraou felouy ; 
Accomplished, an immortal undertaking; 
And wilh GucccsE comes pardon hand iu hand ; 
For all event is God's nrbitrement. 

Servant, {enlerf.) The Colonel Piccoloiiiini, 

Coun. {/luslili/.) —Must wait 

IViil. 1 can not see him now. Ano'.lier time. 

Scr. But lor two minutes he ciilreals an audience, 
or the miist ui^ent nature is his business. 

l\'al. Who knows what he may briii;; us ! I will hear hi[i 

Cuint, (laughs.) U^ent for him, no doubt ; but thou may 

Wul. AMiat is it ? 

Coun. Thou shah be informed hereafter. 

First let the Swede and thee be compromised. 

\Ejtit SerratK 

Wal. If there were yet a choice 1 if yet some milder 
Way of escape were possible — I still 
Will choose it, and avoid the last extreme. 

Conn. Desir>t thou Mothinc furiher ! Such a way 
Lies still before thee. Send this Wrangel off. 
Foraet thou thy old hopes, cast far away 
All lliy past lilt- ; di'Icrniine lo commence 
A new one. Virtue hath her hproos \cn. 
As well as fame and fortune.— To Vienna— 
Hence — to the Emperor — koeel before the throne ; 
Take n full coffer with thee— say aloud. 


rhou- didst but wish to prove thy fealty ; 
Thy whole intention but to dupe the Swede. 

lllo. For that too 'tis too late. They know too much. 
He would but bear his own head to the block. 

Conn. I fear not that. They have not evidence 
To attaint him legally, and they avoid 
The avowal of an arbitrary power. 
They'll let the Duke resign without disturbance. 
I see how all will end. The King of Hungary 
Makes his appearance, and 'twill of itself 
Be understood, that then the Duke retires. 
There will not want a formal declaration. 
The young king will administer the oath 
To the whole army ; and so all returns 
To the old position. On some morrow morning 
The Duke departs ; and now 'tis stir and bustle 
Within his castles. He will hunt, and build, 
Superintend his horses' pedigrees ; 
Creates himself a court, gives golden keys, 
And introduceth strictest ceremony 
III fine proportions, and nice etiquette ; 
Keeps open table with high cheer ; in brief, 
Commenceth mighty king — in miniature. 
And while he prudently demeans himself. 
And gives himself no actual importance, 
He will be let appear \yhate'er he likes ; 
And who dares doubt, that Fried land will appear 
A mighty prince to liis last dying hour ? 
Well now, what then ? Duke Friedland is as othem 
A fire-new noble, whom the war hath raised 
To price and currency, a Jonah's gourd. 
An over-night creation of court-favor. 
Which with an undistinguishable ease 
Makes baron or makes prince. 

Wal. (in extreme agitation.) Take her away. 
Let in the young Count Piccolomini. 

Coun, Art thou in earnest ? 1 entreat thee I Canst thou 
Consent to bear thyself to thy own grave, 
fc$o ignominiously to be dried up ? 
Thy life, that arrogated such a height 


To ead in Buch a nothing ! To be notbing. 
When one was always nothing, is an evil 
That BEks no stretch of patience, a light evil. 
But to become a nothing, having been 

Wal. {siarli up in violent agitalitm.) Sbow me a way out d 
this stifling crowd, 
Ye powers of aidance '. Show me such a way 
As / am capable of going. — I 
Am no tongue'hcro, no fine virtue-prattler ; 
I can not -warm by thinking ; can not say 
To the good luck that turns her back upon me. 
Magnanimously : "lio; I need thee not." 
Cease I to work, I am annihilated. 
Dangers nor sacrifices will I shun. 
If so 1 may avoid the last extreme ; 
But ere I sink down into nothingness. 
Leave oti' so little, who began so great, 
Ere that the world confuses me with those 
Poor wretches, whom a. day creates and crumbles. 
This ape anil ailer-ages spe.ik my name 
With hale and dread ; and Fricdlaud be redemption 
For each accursed deed ! 

Couti. What is there here, then, 

So against nature ? Htlp me to perceive it ! 
let not superslit Inn's itigrhtly goblins 
Subdue thy clear briplit spirit ! Art thou bid 
To murder? — with abhorred accursed poignard, 
To violate the breasts that nourished thee \ 
That u-cre against our nature, that might aptly 
Make thy flesh shudder, and thy whole heart sickeii ; — 
Yet not a few, and for a meaner object, 
Kave ventured even this, ay, and perfbnned it. 
What is there in Iliy case so black and monstrous ? 
Thou art accused of treason — whether with 
Or without justice is not now the question — 
Thou art lost if ihou dost not avail thee quickly 
Of the power whicJi thou posscssest — Friedland I Duke i 
Tell me, where lives that thing so meek and tame. 
That doth not all his living faculties 
Put forth in preservation of his lite '. 


What dewi bo dariog, which uecesBily 
And desperation will not sanctily ? 

Wal. Once was this Ferdinand bo gracious to me : 
He loved me ; he esteemed me ; 1 was placed 
The ncareat to his heart. Full many a timd 
Wc like familiar friendi, both at one table. 
Have banquetted together. He aad 1 — 
And the young kings themselves held me the basin 
Wherewith lo wash me — and is't come to this? 

Coun. So faithruUy preserv'st thou each small faror, 
And hast no memory for contumelies ? 
Must I remind thee, how at Regenapurg 
This man repaid thy faithful services ? 
All ranks and all conditions in the empire 

Thou hadst wronged, to make him great, — hadst loaded on toeo 
On tJiee, the hate, the curse of the whole world. 
No friend existed for thee in all Germany; 
And why 7 because thou hadst existed only 
For the Emperor. To the Emperor alone 
Clung Fricdland in that storm which gathered round him 
At RegenspuTg in the Diet — and he dropped thee ! 
He let thee fall ! He let thee fall a victim 
To the Bavarian, to that insolent ! 
Deposed, stript hare of all thy dignity 
And power, amid the taunting of thy toes. 
Tliou wert let drop into obscurity. — 
Say not, the restoration of thy honor 
Hath made atonement for that first injustice. 
No honest good-will was it that replaced thee, 
The law of hard necessity replaced then. 
Which they had fain opposed, but that they could not 

Wal. Not for their good wishea, that is certain, 
Nor yet to his affection I'm indebted 
For this high office ; and if 1 abuse it, 
I shall Iherein abuse no confidence. 

Coun. Affection ! confidence ! — They needed the« 
Necessity, impetuous remonstrant ! 
Who not with empty names, or shows of proxy, 
Is served, who'll have the thing and not the symbol. 
Ever seeks out the greatest and the best. 


And at the rudder places Am, o'en though 

She had Iwen forred to take him from the rabbl»-- 

She, this iiecessily, it was that placed thee 

In thie high office, it was she that gave thee 

Thy letters pateat of inauguiation. 

Foi, to the uttermoBt moment th&t they can, 

This race etill help ihecn^elves at cheapest rate 

With slavish souls, with puppets ! At the approach 

Of extreme peril, when a hollow image 

Is found a hollow image and no more. 

Then falls the power into the mighty hands 

or nature, of the spirit giant-born. 

Who liBtens only to himself, knows nothing 

Of slipnlations, duties, reverence*. 

And, like the emancipated force of fire, 

Un mastered scorches, ere it reaches them. 

Their fine-spun webs, their artificial poliev- 

M'ul. 'Tis true '. they saw me always as I am — - 
Always! I did not cheat them in the bargain. 
I never held it worth my pains to hide 
The bold all-grasping habit nf :ny soul. 

Coii/i. Xay rather— thou ha^^l ever shown thyself 
A formi.iable man, without restraint ; 
Hast exercised the full prcnigaiives 
Of thy impetuous nature, which had l>een 
Once granted to thee. Thcrctiire, Duke, not thou. 
Who hiist still remained consistent with thyself. 
But tkei/ arc in the wronc. who fearing thee, 
Jiitnisted such a power lit hands they tearcd. 
For, by the laws of spirit, in the right 
Is every individnal charncier 

Self-contradiction is (he only wrong. 
Wert thou anothir being, then, when llion 
£i<;ht years ago pursuedst lliy march with hre 
And sword, and desolation, through the Circles 
OfGermany, the nniver^al sconrge. 
Didst mock all ordinances of the empire, 
Tho fearful rights of strength alone oxertedst, 
Tramplcd^t to earth each rank, each magistracy. 

OB, THE FIRST PAirP OF WALLENSTBW. M to extend thy Sultan'a domination ? 

Tbea was the time to brc&k thee in. to curb 

Thy hRUghty will, to teach thee ordinanFe. 

But no ! the Emperor felt no touch of conscience ; 

What served him pleased him, and without a murmur 

Ho stamped his broad seal on these lawless deeds. 

What at that lime was Hght, because thou didst it 

For him, to-day is all at once become 

Opprobrious, foul, because it is directed 

Against hitn. — most flimsy superstition ! 

Wal. {nnnp.) 1 never saw it in this IJght before. 
'Tis even so. The Emperor perpetrated 
Deeds through my arm, dt'eds most unorderly. 
And' even this prince's mantle, which 1 wear, 
I owe to what were services to him, 
But most high misdemeanors 'gainst the empire. 

Coit/i. Then betwixt thee and him (confess it, FrieiUarul I) 
The point can be no more of right and duty, 
Only of power and opportunity. 
That opportunity, lo ! it comes yonder, 
Approaching with swif^ steeds ; then with a swinj; 
Throw thyself up into the chariot seat, 
Seize with firm hand the reina, ere thy opponent 
Anliclpate thee, and himiflf make conquest 
Of the now empty Beat. The moment comes — 
It is already here, when thou must write 
The absolute total of thy life's vast sum. 
The constellations stand victorious o'er thee, 
The planets shoot good fortune in fair junctions, 
And tell thee, " Now's the time !" The starry couiwn 
Hast thou tliy life-long measured to no purpose ? 
The quadrant and the circle were they playthings? 

[Pointing to tlie ilijf'crent objects in the room. 
The zodiacs, Ihc rolling orbs of heaven, 
[{ast pictured on these walls, and all around thee 
In dumb, Ibrebodlng symbols hast thou placed 
These seven presiding Lords of Destiny — 
For toys ? Is all this preparation nothing ? 
Is there no marrow in this hollow art, 
That even to thyself it doth avail 


Nothing, and has no influence orer theo 
In the great moment of decision ? 

Wal. {daring this last speech walks up and down witk t» 
Kard struggles, lahoring tcith patsions ; stt^ suddenly, tiuwb 
still, then interrupting the Countess.) 
^ad Wrangel to me— 1 will instantly 
Despatch three couriers 

Illo. {hurrying out.) God in heaven be praised 1 

Wal. It is his evil genius and mine. 
Our evil genius 1 It chastises him 
Through me, the instrument of his ambition ; 
And I expect no less, than that Revenge 
E'en now is whetting for my breast thtt poignard; 
Who sow-s the serppnt's teeth, let him not hope 
To reap a joyous harvest. Every crime 
Has, in the moment of its perpetration. 
Its own avenging angel — dark Mii-glving, 
An ominous Sinking at the inmost heart. 
He can no longer trust mc — Then no longer 
Can I retreat — so come that which must come. — 
Still destiny preserves its due relations, 
The heart within us is its absolute 
Vicegerent. [To Tensky. 

Go, conduct you Gustavo Wrangel 
To my stale-cabinet. — Myself will speak to 
Tbc couriers, — And iluspatch immediately 
A servant Ibr Ociaviu Piccolomini. 

[To the Caitit/ess, wAo can not concetti her triumph. 
No exultation ! — wocnan, triumph not ! 
For jealous are the Powers of Destiuy. 
Joy premature, and shouts ere victory, 
Encroach upon their rights and privileges. 
We sow the seed, and they the growlh determine. 

[ While lie is making his exit the curtain dropa 


Scene I. — As in tJic preceding Act. 

Wallensteiny Octavio PicccHomini. 

Wdl. (coming forward in conversation.) He sends me word 
from Linz, that he lies sick ; 
B it I have sure intelligence, that he 
Secretes himself at Frauenberg with Galas. 
Secure them both, and send them to me hither. 
Remember, thou tak'st on thee the command 
Of those same Spanish regiments, — constantly 
Make preparation, and be never ready ; 
And if they urge thee to draw out against me, 
Still answer yes, and stand as thou wert fettered. 
I know, that it is doing thee a service 
To keep thee out of action in this business. 
Thou lov'st to linger on in fair appearances ; 
Steps of extremity are not thy province, 
Therefore have 1 sought out this part for theo. 
Thou wilt this time be of most service to me 
By thy inertness. The mean time, if fortune 
Declare itself on my side, thou wilt know 
What is to do. 

Enter Max. Piccolomini, 
Now go, Octavio. 
This night must thou be off, take my own horses : 
Him here I keep with me — ^makc short farewell^ 
Trust me, I think wc all shall meet again 
In joy and thriving fortunes. 

Or:t. {to his son.) I shall see you 

Yet ere I go. 

Scene II. — Wallenstein, Max. Piccolomim 

Max. {advances to him.) My General ! 
Wal. That am I no longer, if 

Thou styl'st thyself the Emperor*s officer. 

Max. Then thou wilt leave the army, General ? 
Wal. I have renounced the service of the Emperor. 


Max. And thou wilt leave tlie army? 

Wol. Rather hopa I 

To bind it nearer still and foBter to me. \He seats himudf. 
Yes, Max., 1 have delayed to open tt to thee, 
Bven till the hour of acting 'gins to strike. 
Youth's fortunate feeling doth seize easily 
The absolute right, yea, and a joy it is 
To exercise the single apprehension 
Where the sums square in proof; 
But where it happeus, that of two sure evils 
One must be taken, where the heart not wholly 
Brings itself back from out the strife of duties, 
There 'lis a blessing to have no election. 
And blank necessity is grace and favor. 
— This is now present : do not look behind thee, — ■ 
It can no more avail thee. Look thou forwards ; 
Think not! judge not! prepare thyself to act! 
The Court — it hath determined on my ruin, 
Therefore I will to bo beforehand with them. 
We'll join the Swedes — right gallant fellows are ihey. 
And our good friends. 

[lie sfopi himxlf ex]>ecling PicaJrmiini's ansirrr. 
1 have ta'en thee by surprise. Answer me not. 
I grant thee time to recollect thyself 

\Hc rises, ami re/iics at tlie back of the stage. Mux. re- 
mains for a hti-z time motionless, in a tmncc of exceairt 
anguish. At, his first tiwlion WalUnstciu relurrts. anii 
places himself before him. 

Jiliix. My General, this day thou makest me 
Of age til speak in my own right and person. 
For till this day I have been spared the trouble 
To find out my own road. Thee have I followed 
With most implicit uncojidilional faith, 
Sure of (lie riglit path if I ii.llowed tliee. 
To-day, fur the first lime, dost thou refer 
Me to myself, and fi)rpest me to make 
Election between flu-e and mv own heart. 

Wal. Soft cr.adied thee thy Fortune till to-day ; 
Thy duties thou couldst exercise in sport. 
Indulge all lovely inBlincVa, ic^. towsw 


W^ith undivided heart. It can remain 
No longer thus. Like enemies, the roads 
Start from each other. Duties strive with duties. 
Thou must needs choose thy party in the war 
Which is now kindling 'twixt thy friend and him 
Who is thy Emperor. 

Max, WsLT ! is that the name ? 

War is as frightful as heave.i's pestilence. 
Yet it is good, is it heaven's will as that is. 
Is that a good war, which against the Emperor 
Thou wagest with the Emperor's own army ? 
God of heaven I what a change is this. 
Beseems it me to oHer such persuasion 
To thee, who like the hxt star of the pole 
Wert all I gazed at ou life's trackless ocean ? 
! what a rent thou makest in my heart ! 
The ingrained instinct of old reverence, 
The holy hahit of obediency, 
Must I pluck live asunder from thy name ? 
Nay, do not turn thy countenance upon me — 
It always was as a god looking at me ! 
Duke Wallenstein, its power is not departed : 
The senses still are in thy bonds, although. 
Bleeding, the soul hath freed itself. 

IVal. Max., hear me. 

Max. ! do it not, I pray thee, do it not ! 
There is a pure and noble soul within thee, 
Knows not of this unblest, unlucky doing. 
Thy will is chaste, it is thy fancy only 
Which hath polluted thee — and innocence, 
It will not let itself be driven away 
From that world-awing aspect. Thou wilt not. 
Thou canst not, end in this. It would reduce 
All human creatures to disloyalty 
Asrainst the nobleness of their own nature. 
'Twill justify the vulgar misbelief, 
Which holdeth nothing noble in free will, 
And trusts itself to impotence alone 
Made powerful only in an unknown power. 

Wal. The world will judge rae 8lem\y, 1 «xipftfc\.'vV 

59S THE piccoLOHnn: 

Alreaily have 1 eaid to my own self 

All thou c&nBt say to me. Who but svoid* 

Th' extreme, — can ho by goiDg round avoid it? 

But here there is do choice. Yet — 1 muft OM 

Or BufFer violence — bo ntandi the caM, 

There remains nothing poBsible but that. 

Max. that is never possible for thee '. 
'Tis the last desperate resource of those 
Cheap souls, to whom their honor, their good name 
la their poor saving, their last worthlcn Keep, 
Which having Etalced and lost, they stake thenuelTc* 
In the mad rage of gaming. Thou art rich. 
And glorious ; with an unpolluted heart 
Thou canst make conquest of whate'er seems higheat ; 
But he, who once hath acted infamy, 
Does nothing more in this world. 

Wal. {srafjis liis hand.) Calmly, Max. ! 

Mm-h that is great and esecllent will we 
Perform togelher yet. And if we only 
^taiid on the height with dignity, 'lis goon 
Forgotten, !Max., by what road wc ascended. 
Believe me, many a crown shines spotless now. 
That yel was deeply sullied in the winning. 
To the evil sjiirit doth the earth belong, 
^ot to the good. All, that the powers divine 
Send from above, are universal blei^^ings : 
Their lipht rgoiees us, their air refreshes. 
But never yet was man cnriehed by them : 
III their eternal realm no properly 
la to be Elruirgied for — all there \i general. 
The jewel, the all-vahied gold we win 
From the deceiving Powers, depraved in nature. 
That dwell beneath the day and blessed sunlight; 
Sot without aacrilipes are they rendered 
Propiliona, and there lives no soul on earth 
That e'er retired unsullied from their service. 

Ulni, \\'hate'er is human, to the humau being 
Do I allow — and to the vehement 
And Btriviiig spirit readily I pardon 
Th' excess of action ; but to thee, my General ! 


Above all othen make I larjje conceuion. 

For thou must move a world, and be the master — 

He kills thee, who condemiu thee to inaction. 

So be it then 1 maintain thee in thy post 

By violence. Sesist the Emperor, 

And if it must be, force with force repet : 

I will not praiso it, yet 1 can forgive it. 

But not — not to the traitor — yes ! — the word 

Not to the traitor can I yield a pardon. 
That is no mere excess ! that is no error 
Of human nature — that is wholly difTerent ; 
that is black, black as the pit of hell I 

[ Wallenstein betrays a suiltlen agtiation 
Thou canst not hear it named, and wilt thou do it ? 

turn back to thy duty. That thou canst, 

1 hold it cerUin. Send me to Vienna. 

rU make thy peace for thee with th' Emperor. 
He knows thee not. But 1 do know thee. He 
Shall sec thee, Duke I with my unclouded eye. 
And 1 bring back his confidence to thee. 

Will. It is too late. Thou know'at not what has happened. 

Mom. Were it too late, and were things gone so far. 
That a crime only could prevent thy fall, 
Then — Ikll J fall honorably, even as thou stood'st, 
Ii-isc the command. Go from the stage of war. 
Thou canst with splendor do it — do it too 
With innocence. Thou hast lived much for others, 
At length live thou for thy own self. I follow thee. 
My destiny I never part from thine. 

Wal. It is too late ! Even now, while thou art losing 
Thy words, one allei the other are the miln-stoncs 
Lclt fast behind by my post couriers, 
Who bear the order on to Prague and Egra. 

{Max. stands as convulsed, tcith a gesture and count* 
nance expressing the most intense anguish 
Yield thyself to it. We act as wo are forced, 
/can not give assent to my own shame 
And ntin. Thou — nn — thou canst not forsake me ! 
So let t» do, what most be done, with dignity, 


With A firm slep. What am I doinf wone 
Than did famed Castar at the Rubicon, 
When he the legions led against his eoimlry. 
The which his country had delivered to him T 
Had he thrown down the sword, he had be«n lost. 
As I were, if i hut disarmed myself 
I tra te out something in me of his spirit. 
Gire mo his hick, that other thing I'll bear. 

[Mnx. qvils hint abrvplhj. Wailetutein, atartled and 

oierpowercd, continues looking after htm, anil it sfdl 

in this posture iciwn Tertsky enters. 

Scene \\\.^WaUenstein. Tertsky. 

Ter. Hax. Piccolomini just left you ? 

Wal. Whore is Wrangel ? 

Tcr. He is already gone. 

Wal. lu such a hurrj- ? 

Ter. It is as if the earth had swallowed him. 
Ho had scarce left thee, when I went to seek him. 
1 wislieil some words wilh him — but he was goae. 
How, when, and where, could no one lell me. Kay 
I half believe il was the devil himself; 
A human creature could not so at once 
Haw vanished. 

Illo. {cnUn.) Is it true that thou wilt send 
Oelavio ? 

T.T. How, Octavio : Whiiher send him ! 

Ifd/. He goes to Frauenberg, and will lead hither 
The ^Spanish and Italian regiments. 

iiio. Xo : 

Kay, Heaven forbid ! 

Wal. And why should Heaven forbid ? 

Ill'i. Him 1 — that deceiver I Would' st thou trust lo hiia 
The soldiery ? Him wik tbon let slip from thee, 
Now. in the very i[i£lanl ihat decides us 

Ter. Thou wilt not do this : — Xo : 1 pray thee, no ! 

Wal. Ve are wtnmsical. 

Illo. but fot this time. Di ke, 

yield to niir v-am'iDg \ \jt\. V\m n*j\ ie^w.. 


Wal. And why should I not trust him only this time, 
Who havo always trusted hiia ^ What, then, has happcme).' 
That I should lose my good opioion of him? 
In coiaplaisance to your whims, not my own, 
I must, forsooth, give up a rooted judgment. 
Think not I am a woman. Having trusted him 
E'vn till to-day, to-day too will I trust him. 
Ter. Must it be he — he only ! Send another. 
li'ai. It must be be, whom I myself have chosen; 
lie is well-fitted foi the business. Therefore 
I gave it him. 

Ilh. Because he's an Italian— 

Thcreliire is ho well fitted lor the business. 

Wal. 1 know you love them not — nor sire nor son— 
Because that I esteem them, love them — visibly 
Esteem them, love them more than you and others. 
K'en as they merit. Therefore are they eye-blights. 
Thorns in your foot-path. But your jcalousios, 
In what ati'ect they mo or my concerns? 
Are they the worse to tne because you hate them ? 
Love or hate one another as you will, 
I leave to each man his own moods and likings ; 
Yet know the worth of each of you to me. 

lllo. Von Cluestenberg. while he was here, was always 
Lurking about with this Oclavio, 

Wal. It happened with ray knowledge and permission 
lilo. I know that secret messengers came to him 

From Galas 

Wul. That's not true. 

lllo. thou art blind 

With thy deep-seeing eyes. 

Wal. Thou wilt not shake 

lHy faith for me — my faith, which founds itself 
On the profoundcst science. If 'lis false, 
Then the whole science of the stars is false. 
For know, I have a pledpe from liite iiself. 
That he is the most faithful of my friends. 

I/lo. Hast thou a pledge, that this picdfre is not false ! 
Wal. There exist moments in the Ufu of vaan 
Wbea be w nearer the great Soul of the wot\!i 


Than is man^s custom, and possessos freely 
The power of questioning his destiny : 
And such a moment Hwas, when in the night 
Before the action in the plains of Ltitzen, 
Leaning against a tree, thoughts crowding thought^ 
I looked out far upon the ominous plain. 
My whole life, past and future, in this moment 
Before my mind's eye glided in procession, 
And to the destiny of the next morning 
The spirit, tilled with auxious presentiment, 
Did knit the most removed futurity. 
Then said I also to myself, *' So many 
Dost thou command. They follow all thy stara 
And as on some great number set their AH 
Upon thy single head, and only man 
The vessel of thy fortune. Yet a day 
Will come, when destiny shall once more scatter 
All these in many a several direction : 
Few^ be they who will stand out Ikithful to thee." 
I yearned to know which one was iaithfuUest 
Of all, this camp included. Great Destiny, 
Give me a sign I And he shall be the man, 
AVho, on the approaching morning, comes the first 
To meet me with a token of his love : 
And thinking tliis, I fell into a slumber. 
Then midmost in the battle was I led 
In spirit. Great the pressure and the tumult ! 
Then was my horse killed under me : I sank : 
And over me away all unconcernedly. 
Drove horse and rider — and thus trod to pieces 
I lay, and panted like a dying man. 
Then seized me suddenly a savior arm ; 
It was Octavio's — I awoke at once, 
'Twas broad day, and Octavio stood before me. 
'• My brother," said he, '* do not ride to-day 
The dapple, as you're wont ; but mount the horse 
AVhich 1 have chosen for thee. Do it, brother I 
In love to me. A strong dream warned me so." 
It was the swiftness of this horse that snatched me 
From the hot pursuit ot Baumei'^ <k;x^wB&. 


My cousin rode the dapple on that day, 
And never more saw I or horse or rider. 

Illo. That was a chance. 

WaL {significantly.) There's no such thing as chance. 
In brief, 'tis signed and sealed that this Octavio 
Is my good angel — and now no word more. \^He is retiring 

Ter. This is my comfort — Max. remains our hostage. 

Illo, And he shall never stir from here alive. 

Wal. {stops and turns hinisdf round.) Arc ye not like the 
women, who forever 
Only recur to their first word, although 
One had been talking reason by the hour ? 
Know, that the human being's thoughts and deeds 
Are not, like ocean billows, blindly moved. 
The inner world, his microcosmus, is 
The deep shaf^, out of which, they spring eternally. 
They grow by certain laws, like the tree's fruit — 
No juggling chance can metamorphose them. 
Have I the human kernel first examined ? 
Then I know, too, the future will and action. 

Scene IV. — A CJianiber in Piccolomini's Dwdling-Jiouse^ 
Octavio Piccolomini, Isolani {entering). 

[so. Here am I — Well I who comes yet of the others ? 

Oct. {with an air of mystery.) But, first, a word with you, 
Count Isolani. 

Iso. {toitk the same air of mystery.) Will it explode, ha?-- 
Is the Duke about 
To make th' attempt ? In me, friend, you may place 
Full confidence. — ^Nay, put me to the proof. 

Oct. That may happen. 

Iso. Noble brother, I am 

Not one of those men who in words are valiant, 
And when it comes to action skulk away. 
The Duke has acted t' wards me as a friend. 

God knows it is so ; and I owe him all 

He may rely on my fidelity. 

Oct. That will be seen hereafler. 

Ix?. Bo on ^out ^VAX^ 

Sgg THB ficcoloxuh: 

All think not as 1 think ; and thore >re mftny 
Who still hold with the Court — yei, &ad they ta,v 
That those Btoln Eignatures bind them to nothing. 

Ort. I am rejcHced to hear it. 

Iso. You rejoice ! 

Oct. That the Emperor has yet such gallant m 
Ad<1 loriug friends. 

Iso. Nay, jeer not, I entreat you. 

They are no such woTthlesa Tellows, 1 aasute you. 

Oct. I am assured already. God forbid 
That 1 should jest ! — In very serious earnest 
1 am rejoiced to see an honest cause 
Sjo stroug. 

Iso. The devil ! — what ! — why, what means this T 
Are you not, then For what, then, am I here ? 

Oc/. That you may make full declaration, whether 
You will hi; railed the friend or enemy 
Of th' Emperor. 

/so. [iriili an air ofdr/iance.) That declaration, friend. 
I'll make to him in whom n rjirht is placed 
To put qiicstiou tu me. 

Oct. Whether, Count. 

That ri^ht is mine, this paper may instruct yon. 

lio. {siammcri/ii!.) Why, — why — what! This is the Eiupi 
ror's liaud and ceal ! | R(it it. 

" Whereas the ofTiccrs colleolively 
Throughout our army will obey the enters 
Of the Lieuleiiant-Ueneral riccolomini. 

As I'rom ourselves." Htm .'—Yes 1 so I— Yes ! yes !— 

I — I give you joy, Lieulenaiit-ljeneral ! 

Oct. And you submit you to the order .' 

But you have taken me so by surprise — 

Time for rellection one mus/- have 

Oc/. T«o minutes. 

J.10. My God ! But then the case is 

Oti. Plain and simple. 

You must declare you, whether you 

To act a treason 'gainst voiir Lord and t>ov< 
Or H-iietluT vou viWi serve \ttm la\*.VK«V\-i . 


Iso. Treason ! — My God ! — But who talks then of treason ? 

Oct. That is the case. The Prince-duke is a traitor — 
Means to lead over to the enemy 

The Emperor's army. — ^Now, Count ! — ^brief and full — 
JiJay, will you break your oath to th* Emperor ? 
Sell yourself to the enemy ? — Say, will you ? 

Iso. What mean you ? I — I break my oath, d'ye say, 
To his Imperial Majesty ? 
Did I say so ? — ^When, when have I said that ? 

Oct. You have not said it yet — not yet. This instant 
I wait to hear, Count, whether you will say it. 

Iso. Ay ! that delights me now, that you yoursolf 
Bear witness for me that I never said so. 

Oct. And you renounce the Duke then ? 

Iso. If he's planning 

Treason — why, treason breaks all bonds asunder. 

Oct. And are determined, too, to tight against him ? 

Iso. He has done me service — but if he's a villain, 
Perdition seize him ! — All scores are rubbed off. 

Oct. I am rejoiced that you're so well disposed. 
This night break off in th' utmost secrecy 
With all the light-armed troops — it must appear 
As came the order from the Duke himself 
At Frauenberg's the place of rendezvous ; 
There will Count Galas give you further orders 

Iso. It shall be done. But you'll remember ine 
With th' Emperor — how well disposed you fbuml me. 

Oct. I will not fail to mention it honorably. 

[Exit Isdaiii. A St^vant enters 
What, Colonel Butler ! — Show him up. 

Iso. {returning.) Forgive me too my bearish ways, pld tather 
Lord God I how should 1 know, then, what a great 
Person I had before me. 

Oct. No excuses I 

Iso. I am a merry lad, and if at time 
A rash word might escape me 'gainst the Court 
Amidst my wine — You know no harm was meant. IJSxit 

Oct. You need not be uneasy on that score. 
That has succeeded. Fortune favor us 
With all the otbera onlv but as muchl 


Scene V. — Octavio Piccolomini, Budtr. 

But. At your command, Lieatenut-GenenJ. 

Oct. Welcome, as honored fncnd snd vintor. 

But. You do me too much honor. 

Oct. {afier both have leated themsetvei.) You hare n 
Returned the advances which I made you yesterday — 
MiEundentood them, as mere empty forma. 
That wish proceeded from my heart — 1 was 
In earnest with you — for 'tis now a time 
In which the honest should unite .most closelr. 

But. 'Tis only the like-minded can unite. 

Oct. True ! and I name all honest men like-mmded. 
I never charge a man but with those acts 
To which his character deliberately 
Impels him ; for alas ! the violence 
or blind m i su nil erst and ings often thrusts 
Tho vt-ry best of us from the richt track- 
You came Ihruugh Fraueuberc;. Did the Count Galas 
Say nothing to you ? Tell me. He's my friend. 

But. His words were lo^t on me. 

Oct. It grieves me soreivi 

To hear it : for bis counsel was most wise. 
I had myself the like to offer. 

Bat. ::>pare 

Yourself the trouble — me th" enibarrassment, 
To have dcferved so ill your gnod opiuion. 

Oct. The time is precious — let us talk openly. 
You know how matters stand here. \Vallensteiu 
Meditates treason— I can tell you further- 
He has committed treason ; but few hours 
Have past, since he a covenant eoneluded 
With th' enemy. The messengers are now 
Full on their way to Ezra and to Prairue, 
To -morrow he intends to lead us over 
To th' enemy. But he deceives him«clf ; 
For prudence wakes — the Emperor has still 
.Many and faithful friends here, and they stand 
Jii clitsest union miahly thouiih nnseen. 
riiis inauifeslo wirtewce* Ae \»»Vi-- 


Recalls the obedience of the army from him. 
And summons all the loyal, all the honest, 
To join and recognize in me their leader. 
Choose — will you share with us an honest cause ? 
Or with the evil share an evil lot. 

But. {rises.) His lot is mine. 

Oct. Is that your last resolve ? 

But. It is. 

Oct. Nay, but bethink you, Colonel Butler I 

As yet you have time. Within my faithful breast 
That rashly uttered word remains interred . 
Recall it, Butler ! choose a better parly : 
You have not chosen the right one. 

But, (going.) Any other 

Commands for me, Lieutenant-Geueral ? 

Oct. See your white hairs I Recall that word ! 

But. P'arewell I 

Oct. What would you draw this good and gallant sword 
In such a cause ? Into a curse would you 
Transform the gratitude which you have earned 
By forty years' fidelity from Austria ? 

But. (laughing with bitterness.) Gratitude from the House of 
Austria. [He is going. 

Oct. (permits him to go as far as tite door, then calls after 
him.) Butler! 

But, What wish you ? 

Oct. How was't with the Count ? 

But. Count? what? 

Oct. (coldly.) The title that you wished I mean. 

But. (sturts in sudden passion.) Hell and damnation ! 

Oct. (coldly.) You petitioned for it — 
And your petition was repelled — Was it so ? 

But. Your insolent scoiT shall not go by unpunished. 
Draw ! 

Oct. Nay ! your sword to 'ts sheath ! and tell me calmly, 
How all that happened. I will not refuse you 
Your satisfaction afterwards. — Calmly, Butler ! 

But. Be the whole world acquainted with the weakness 
For which I never can forgive myself 
Lieutenant-Genera] / Yes — I have ambitvon. 
VOL. vn. 2 

en THE piccoLoinNi. 

Ne'er was I able to endure contempt. 

It stung me to the quick, that birth and title 

Should have more weight than merit bas in tb' army. 

I would fain uol be meaner tbaa my equal, 

So in an evil houT I let m)'eelf 

Be tempted to that measure— It waa folly I 

But yet BO hard a penance it deserved uot. 

It might have been refused ; but wherefore barb 

And venom the refusal with contempt ? 

Why dash to earth and crush with heaviest scori. 

The gray-haired man, the laithful Veteran ? 

Why to the baseness of his parentage 

Refer him with such cruel roughness, only 

Because he had a weak hour and forgot himself I 

But nature gives a sting e'eu to the worm 

Which wanton power treacls od in sport and insult- 

Oct. You must have been calumniated. (Juess yoa 
The enemy, who did you this ill service ? 

Bat. Bc't who it will — a most low-hearted scoundrel. 
Some vile cuurt-minion must it be, some Spaniard, 
Some young squire of some ancient family, 
In whose llsht I may stand, some euvious knave, 
Slung to bis soul by my fair sclf-carnod honors ! 

Oct. But tell me ' Did the Duke approve that iitcasitre ? 

JBul. Himself impellod me to it, usc<l bis interest 
In my behalf with all the warmth of friendship. 

Oct. Ay ? Arc you sure of that f 

Bill. I read the teller. 

Oft. And so did I— but Ihc contents were diflwnl. 

[Bitller is futlden/y struct. 
By chance I'm in possession of that letter — 
Can leave it to your own eyes to convince you. 

[He gives him tlu: Utlei 

But. Ha! what i,= this? 

Oct. 1 fear me. Colonel Butler. 

An infamous game have they been playinjr with you. 
The Duke, you say, impelled' you to 
Now, in this letter talks ho in eontempt 
Concerning you, counsels the Minister 
To give Eouuil flias.viaeineu\, \o 'jo\h pihwjkA, 


For so he calls it. 

[Butler reads through Hie letter, his knees tremUe, he mzet 
a citaif, and sinks dmcn in it. 
You have no eneniy, no persecutor ; 
There's no one wishes ill to you. Asctibe 
The insult you received to the Duke only. 
His aim is clear and palpable. He wished 
To tear you from your Emperor — he hoped 
To gain from your revenge what ho well knew 
(What your long-tried fidehty convinced him) 
He ne'er could dare expect from your calm reason 
A blind tool would he make you, iu contempt 
Use you, as means of most abandoned ends. 
He has gained his point. Too well has he succeeded 
In luring you away from that good path 
On which you had been journeying forty years 1 

But. {his voice tremUing.) Can e'er the Emperor's Majesty 
forgive mo ? 

Oct. More than forgive you. He would fain compensate 
For that alTront, and most unmerited grievance 
Sustained by a deserving, gallant veteran. 
From his free impulse ho confirms the present. 
Which the Duke made you fsr a wicked pur [rase. 
The regiment, which you now command, is yours. 

\Butler ntfempts to rise, sinks down again. He labors 
inieardly with violent emotions; tries to speak, and can 
not.. At length he takes his stcord from the belt, and 
offers it to Piccoliymini. 

Oct. What wish you ? Recollect yourself, friend. 

But. Take it. 

Oct. But to what purpose? Calm yourself. 

But. take it! 

I am no longer worthy of this sword. 

Oct. Receive it then anew from my hands — and 
Wear it with honor for the right cause ever. 

Bitt. Perjure myself to such a gracious Sovereign I 

Oct. You'll make amends. Quick! break off from the Duke I 

But. Break off from him ! 

Oct. What now ? Be\.Viii\V. vV-s^AI. 

Bui. {no longer ^ooerHinn his cwiotron,^ OiiX'S \itt«Jfc. ii'& 'i^'^^'s 
him ? — He diee '. lio dies ' 


Oct. Come afler me to Frsucnberg, where noir 
All who are loyal are aseembliDg under 
CouDts Altriiiger and Galas. Uany otheni 
I've brought to a remembraai^e of their duty. 
This night be sure, that you escape from Pilaen. 

£ut. (Sutler strides up aitd doien in excessive agiiatitm, litem 
steps up to Octavio vrith resolved coiiHlenaiux.) Cow» 
Piccolomini ! Dare that maa speak 
Ur honor to you, who once broke his troth ) 

Oct. He who repeats so deeply of it, dares. 

Sue Then leave me here, upon my word of honor ! 

Oct. What's your design ? 

But, Leave me and my regiment. 

Oct. I have full conHdeace in you. But tell me 
What a'e you brooding ? 

But. ' That the deed will tell you. 

A#k mo no more at pri-seiit. Tnist lo me. 
Ye may (rust safely. By the living God 
Ye srive him over not to his good angel ! 
l-'areweU. [Exit Bullet. 

AVr. {entera with a billet.) A stranger left it. and is goBO 
Tliu Piince-diike's horses wait f.-r you below. [E.rir .Scrninf 

Oct. {reads.) " Be wire, make li'aeie 1 Yonr faithful Isolau ' 
—0 ll<it I hail but left this town behiiid me. 
to sp'.'t U|»iii a rock sii near the haren ! — 
\»ny! this is no lousier a safe place forme! 
Wh'TL" call my sou bi- tarrying ? 

SnjNE VI. — Orlario nnd M'lx. Piccolomini — Max. enters in i 
f/aie of deriinacmcitl from cilremc aeiiation. his eyes r-il 
•cildhi. his trnlk is vnsleadif, he apjicars not lo observe hii 
father, trho itiimh at a distance, and ptzcs at him vilh a 
iiiiintcnance e.rjiressire of camjiassion. He paces trith hi": 
strides tkroush the chamtrer, then sliinds still asain. and i'! 
lafi ihroici him^ilf into a clinir, staring cacnnth/ at iheiA 
jecC directly brfurc him. 
Oct. (advances lo Max ) I am going olF. my wn. 

[Receiving no ansicer. he lakes his hand. 
My son. fareirall 
Max. Farewell. 


Oct. Thou wilt soon follow me ? 

Max. 1 follow thee ? 

Thy way is crooked — it is not my way. 

[Octavio drops his hand^ and starts back. 
0, hadst thou been but simple and sincere, 
Ne'er had it come to this — all had stood otherwise. 
He had not done that foul and horrible deed, 
The virtuous had retained their influence o'er him : 
He had not fallen into the snares of villains. 
Wherefore so like a thief, and thiefs accomplice 
Did'st creep behind him — lurking for thy prey ? 
0, unblest falsehood ! Mother of all evil ! 
Thou misery-making demon, it is thou 
That sink'st us in perdition. Simple truth, 
Sustainer of the world, had saved us all ! 
P^ather, I will not, I can not excuse thee ! 
Wallcnstein has deceived me — 0, most ibnlly ! 
But thou hast acted not much better. 

Oct. Son ! 

My son, ah ! I forgive thy agony i 

Max. {rises and contemplates his father teith looks of stis- 
picion.) Was't possible ? had'st thou the heart, my 
Had'st thou the heart to drive it to such lengths, 
With cold premeditated purpose ? Thou — 
Had'st thou the heart, to wish to see him guilty, 
Rather than saved ? Thou risest by his fall. 
Octavio, 'twill not please me. 

Oct. God in Heaven I 

Max. woe is me ! sure I have changed my nature. 
How comes suspicion here — in the free soul ? 
Hope, confidence, belief, are gone ; for all 
Lied to mo, all what I e'er loved or honored. 
No ! No ! Not all ! She — she yet lives for me, 
And she is true, and open as the heavens ! 
Deceit is everywhere, hypocrisy. 
Murder, and poisoning, treason, perjury : 
The single holy spot is now our love, 
The only unprofaned in human nature. 

Oct. Max. ! — we will go together. Twill be bettur. 


Max. What ? ere I've takeu a last parting leave. 
The very last — no, never I 

Oct. Spare thyself 

The pang of necessary separation. 
Come with me ! Come, my son ! 

\ Attempts to take him with him. 

Max. No ! as sure as God lives, no ! 

Oct, (more urgently.) Come with me, I command thee ! 1 
thy father. 

Max. Command me what is human. I stay here. 

Oct. Max. ! in the Emperor's name I bid thee come. 

Max. No Emperor has power to prescribe 
Laws to the heart ! and would'st thou wish to rob me 
Of the sole blessing which my fate has lefl me. 
Her sympathy. Must then a cruel deed 
Be done with cruelty ? The unalterable 
Shall I perform ignobly — steal away. 
With stealthy coward flight forsake her \ No I 
She shall behold my suflcring, my sore anguish. 
Hear the complaints of the disparted soul, 
And weep tears o'er me. Oh ! the human race 
Have steely souls — but she is as an angel. 
From the black deadly madness of despair 
Will she redeem my soul, and in soft words 
Of comfort, plaining, loose this pang of death ! 

Oct. Thou will not tear thyself away ; thou canst not. 
0, come, my son ! 1 bid thee save thy virtue. 

Max. Squander not thou thy words in vain 
The heart 1 follow, for I dare trust to it. 

Oct. {tremblirig ami losing all $clf -command.) Max.! Max.! 
if that most damned thing could be. 
If thou — my son — my own blood — (dare 1 think it ?) 
Do sell thyself to him, the infamous. 
Do stamp this brand upon our noble house, 
Then shall the world behold the horrible deed. 
And in unnatural combat shall the steel 
Of the son trickle with the father's blood. 

Max. hadst thou always better thought of men, 
Thou hadst then acted better. Curst suspicion ! 
Unholy miserable doub\.\ To V\uv 


Nothing on earth remains un wrenched and firm, 
Who has no faith. 

Oct. And if I trust thy heart, 

Will it be always in thy power to follow it ? 

Alax. The heart's voice thou hast not overpower' d — as little 
Will Wallenstein be able to o'erpower it. 

Oct. 0, Max. I I see thee never more again ! 

Max. Unworthy of thee wilt thou never see mo. 

Oct. I go to Frauenberg — the Pappenheimers 
I leave thee here, the Lothrings too ; Toskana 
And Tiefenbach remain here to protect thee. 
They love thee, and are faithful to their oath, 
And will far rather fall in gallant contest 
Than leave their rightful leader, and their honor. 

Max. Rely on this, I either leave my life 
In the struggle, or conduct them out of Filsen. 

Oct. Farewell, ray son ! 

Max. Farewell ! 

Oct. How ? not one look 

Of filial love ? No grasp of th' hand at parting ? 
It is a bloody war, to which we are going. 
And the event uncertain and in darkness. 
So used we not to part — it was not so ! 
Is it then true, I have a son no longer ? 

[Max. falls into his arms ; they Iwld each for a long 
time in a speecldess embrace, then go away at different 

The Curtain drops. 




(, Jhtii ofFHfdUtnd, QauniUnmc ttf Of Imprriml J'srea m 

Uu Thirtf yean- War. 
DnCEsn or Fsixdlikii^ Wifi ef WaUtntltin. 
Tbdcli, Act- Doighler, Pritutu of Frieiimid. 
Tb> Cocnms Tbtbkt, Biltr ef At DmdUu. 
liUtt Hxawamm. 

OotATio PioooLOMm, LittUtnant-OtturaL 

liu. PioooMMnn, Ati Hon, Calontl of a EtfimtiU of (^Nrauwn. 
OcKnT TetTnr, tA« Cimimanier ef iettnX JtigtmenU, mid Bratkwr^i^J^ 

vf WalUnlttin. 
Illo, Field- ItariAal, irallenaein'M Confidant. 
Bltlek, an Iriihmati, Commander of a RtgimeM nf Dragootu. 

GOBDOM. GovtmoT of SgTO. 

HuoK Oeealdri. 
Cahaix Devekeui. 


Neihukh, Captain of Caeatry, Aide-de-Camp to TrrtAif. 




AsBTEBSADi nf the Cuirainen. 

Gboom or Tai Cauunt, ) , , . .< » >. 

AiiroMMT^ Ihagoont, Benantt. 



Scene I. — A Chamber in the House of the Ducliess of Fried 
land. Countess Tertski/, Thekla, Lady Neubrunn. {TJie 
two latter sit, at the same table at work.) 

Coun. (watching iliemfrom the opposite side.) So you have 
nothing, niece, to ask me ? Nothing ? 
I have heen waiting for a word from you. 
And could you then endure in all this time 
Not once to speak his name ? 

[ Thekla remaining silent^ the Countess rises and advancei 
to Iter. 

Why comes this ? 
Perhaps I am already grown superfluous. 
And other ways exist, besides through me ? 
Confess it to me, Thekla ! have you seen him ? 
Tfiek. To-day and yesterday I have not seen him. 
Conn. And not heard from him either? Come, be open ! 
Thek. No syllable. 

Coun. And still you are so calm ? 

Thek. I am. 
Coun. May't please you, leave us. Lady Neubrunn ! 

[Exit Lady Neubrunn. 

Scene II. — The Countess, Tliekla. 

Coun. It does not please me. Princess ! that he holds 
Himself so stUly exactly at this time. 

Tliek. Exactly at this time ? 

Coun. Ho now knows alL 

Twere now the momeni to declare himfieVC. 


Thel:. If I'm to underetand you, speak les dufcly. 

Coun. 'TwsB for that purpose th&t I bade her teart m. 
Thekla. you are no more a child. Your heart 
Is now no more in nonnge : foT you love. 
And bolitneas dwells with love— that t/ou have proved. 
Your nature moulds itself upon yout father's 
Uore than your mother's spirit. Therefore may you 
Hear, what were too much for her fortitude. 

Thek. Enough ! no further preface, 1 entreat you. 
At once out with it ! Be it what it may, 
It is not possible that it should torture me 
More than this introduction. What have you 
To Bay tn me ? Tell me the whole and briefly ! 

Coun. You'll liot bo frightened — 

Ttiek. K'ame it, I entreat you 

Coun. It lies within your power to do your father 
A wi'ijrhty service^ 

Thck. Lies within my power? 

CouH. Max. Piccoloniiui loves you. You can link hia 
Indissolnbiy to vour father. 

Tlick. ' 1 ? 

What neod of mc for that ? And is he not 
Already liiikt'd to him ? 

Coiui. Ho was. 

Thek. And wherefore 

Should he not be so nou' — not be so always ? 

Coun. He cleaves to th' Emperor loo. 

Thck. Not more than duty 

And honor n 

lay demand of him. 


We ask 

Proofs of his 

love, and not proofs 

of his honor. 

Duty and ho 

nor 1 

Tliosc are ar 

nbi^iuous words with 

many meanings. 

You should 

interpret them lor hi 

m: his love 

Should be ih 

le sole ddiuiT of his 


Thck. Ho 



Th' Umpcror or 

you must be rcnounac^ 

Thck. He 

will aci-ompanv my 

falher gladly 

Itt his retirement. Fro«v\i\mwV 

; ^o-i \\e-it«i. 

Wow much he wiatied lo U^ »»V 

ic ^W *^^lt)t\. 


Ooun. He mu«( not lay the sword aside, we mean ; 
lie itiuat UDshcalh it ia your iathei'a cause. 

Tlick. He'll epcnd with gladness and alacrity 
His life, his heart's blood in my father's cause, 
II' shame or injury be intended him. 

Conn. You will not understand me. Well, hear thoal 
Your father has fallen off from the Eiuperor, 
Aud ia about to join the enemy 
U'jth the whole soldiery — 

Tkek. Alas, my mother ! 

Cvun. There needs a |;reat example to draw on 
The army after him. The Ficcolomini 
Possess the love and reverence of the troops ; 
They govern all opinions, and wherever 
They lead the way. none hesitate to follow. 
The son secures the father to our interests — 
You've much in your hands at this moment. 

T)ick. Ah, 

My miserablo mother! what a death-stroke 
AwaiU thee l^No ! She never will survive it. 

■C'oiin. She will accommodate her soul to that 
Which ia and must be. I do know your mother. 
Tho far-oil' future weighs upon her heart 
With torture of anniuty ; but is it 
Unalterably, actually present, 
She soon resigns herself, and bears it calmly. 

Tltek. my foreboding bosom 1 Even now. 
E'en now 'lis here, that icy hand of horror! 
And my young hope lies shuddering in its grasp ; 
I knew it well — no sooner had 1 entered, 
A heavy omiuoua presentiment 
Revealed to me, that spirits of death were hovering 
Over my happy fortune. But why think I 
First of myself. My mother! my mother! 

Court. Calm yourself! Break not out in vain lamenting I 
I'rcserve yon fur your father the firm friend. 
And for yourself the lover, all wilt yet 
I'rovB good and fortunate. 

T/iek. Prove good ? "VJWt %wA'». 

Afwft we not part ? Part ne'er to meet agaiul 


Couii. Ho parts not from you. Ha cui not put irom you. 

Thek. Alas Tor his sore uigui^ I It will rend 
His heart uiuider. 

Coun. If indeed he lorei you. 

His resolution wilt be speedily taken. 

Thek. His resolution will be speedily taken — 
io not doubt of that I A resolution! 
Doet there remain one to be taken ? 

Court. Hush ! 

Collect yourself! I hear your mother coming. 

Tliek. How shall I bear to see her ! 

Coun. Collect yourself. 

Scene III. — To them enter the Duchess. 

Duch. (to the Countess.) Who was here, sister 7 I heard soma 
one talkiii-;, 
And passionately too. 

Conn. Kay ! There was no one. 

Ouch. I am grown so timorous, every trifling aoise 
Scatters my spirits, and announces to me 
The footstep of some messenger of evil. 
And can you tell me, sister, what the event is ? 
Will he agree to do ihc Emperor's pleasure, 
And send ih' horse regiineuts lo the Cardinal ? 
Tell me. has he dismissed Von Q,uestcnberg 
With a lavorable answer ? 

Coun. No, he has not. 

Duck. Alas ! then all is lost ! I see it eoming, 
The worst that can come ! Yes, they will depose him ; 
The accursed business of the Reg'enspurg diet 
Will all be acted o'er again I 

Coun. Ko! never! 

Make your heart easy, sister, as to that. 

[Tlickla, in extreme agitation, throws herself u^on her 
Mollier, and enfolds her in her arms. Keeping. 

Duck. Yes, my poor child 1 
Thou loo hast lost a most afiiK^tionatc godmother 
(n th' Empress. that stern unbending man I 
In this unhappy mait'iage ■w\\4t\iwf6\ 


Not sufiercd, not endured. For ev'n bb if 

1 had been linked on to eome wheel of fire 

That restlesB, ceaseless, whirls impeluous onwatd, 

1 have passed a life of frights and horrors with him. 

And ever to the brink of some abyss 

With dizzy headlong violence he whirls me. 

Nay, do not weep, my child ! Let not my sufToriDgs 

Presignify unhappiness to tl.uu, 

Nor blacken with their shade ihefate that waits thee. 

There lives no second Friedland; thou, my child, 

Uast not to fear thy mother's destiny. 

T/tek. let ua supplicate him, dearest mother 1 
ftuick ! quick ! here's no abiding-place for us. 
Here every coming hour broods into life 
Some new all'rightful monster. 

Duch. Thou wilt shai« 

An easier, calmer lot, my child ! Wo too, 
I and thy father, witnessed happy days. 
Still think I with delight of those first years, 
When he was making progress with glad eflort, 
When his ambition was a genial fire, 
Not that consuming^(im« which now it is. 
The Emperor loved him, trusted him : and all 
He undertook could not but be successful. 
But since that ill-starred day at Rcgcnspurg, 
Which plunged him headlong from his dignity, 
A gloomy uncompanionable spirit. 
Unsteady and suspicious, has possessed him. 
His quiet mind forsook him, and no longer 
Did he yield up himself in joy and faith 
To his old luck, and individual power ; 
But thenceforth turned his heart and best allectioiu 
All to those cloudy sciences, which never 
Have yet made happy him who followed them. 

Coun. You see it, sister ! as your eyes permit you. 
But surely this is not the ooiiversation 
To pa«a the time in which we arc wailing for him. 
You know he will be soon here. Would you have him 
Find her in this condition ? 

Duch. Come, ray c'b\V&\ 


Come, wipe away thy tears, aud show thy father 
A cheerlul countenance. See, the tie-knot here 
Is oGl- — this hair must not hang so dishevelled. 
Come, dearest ! dry thy tears up. They deform 
Thy gentle eye — well now — what was I saying ? 
Yes, in good truth, this Piccolomini 
Is a most noble and deserving gentleman 

CaiiH. That is he, sister I 

T^iek. (Jo the Countess, tcith marks of great oppresskm of 
spirits.) Aunt, you will excuse me ? [/s going 

Conn. But whither ? See, your father comes. 

Thek. I can not see him now. 

Coun. Nay, but bethink yon. 

Tluk. Believe me, I can not sustain his presence. 

Coun, But he will miss you, will ask afler you. 

Duch. What now ? Why is she going ? 

Coun. She's not ^vell. 

Dudt. {anxiously.) \Miat ails then my beloved child ? 

[Both follow the Princess, and endeavor to fletain hrr 
During this Wallenstein appears, engaged in conter 
self ion with Illo. 

Scene IV. — Wallenstein, Illo, Countess, Du^rfiess, Thekla, 

Wal. All quiet in the camp ? 

Illo. It is all quiet. 

Wal. In a few hours may couriers come from Prague 
With tidings, that this capital is ours. 
Then we may drop the mask, and to the troops 
Assembled in this town make known the measure 
And its result together. In such cases 
Example does the whole. Whoever is foremost 
Still leads the herd. An imitative creature 
Is man. The troops at Prague conceive no other. 
Than that the Pilsen army has gone through 
The forms of homage to us ; and in Pilsen 
They shall swear fealty to us, because 
The example has been given them by Prague. 
Butler, you tell me, has declared himself. 

Illo. At his own bvddm^, uuaoUcited^ 
ife came to offer you YuiuseV^ ;ixi^ T^i^vwv^^^N.. 


It a/. I find we must not give implicit credence 
To every warning voice that makes itself 
Be listened to in ih' heart. To hold us back. 
Oil does the lying spirit counterfeit 
The voice of truth and inward revelation. 
Scattering false oracles. And thus have 1 
To entreat forgiveness, for that secretly 
I'vu wrong'd this honorable gallant man, 
This Butler : for a feeling, of the which 
1 ait. not maHter, (fear I would not call it) 
Creeps o'er me inittantly, with sense of shuddering, 
At his approach, and stops love's joyous motion. 
And this same man, against whom I am warned, 
This honest man is ho. who reaches to me 
. The first pledge of my fortune. 

Illo. And doubt not 

That bis example will win over to you 
The best men in the army. 

Wal. tio and send 

Isolaiii hither. Send him immediately. 
He is under recent obligations to me. 
With him will I commence the trial. Go. [Illo exit. 

Wai. {i.urni himself round to Ikt fentdUi.) Lo, there tho 
mother with the darling daughter ! 
Fur once we'll have an interval of rest — 
Come I my heart yearns lo live a cloudless hour 
In the beloved circle of my family. 

Coun. 'Tis long since we've been thus together, brother. 

Wal. {to tlie Countess aside) Can she sustain the news T 
Ih she prepared ? 

Coun. Not yet. 

Wal. Come here, my sweet girl ! Seat thee by me, 
For there is a good spirit on thy lips. 
Thy mother praised to mo thy ready skill : 
yhe says a voice of melody dwells in ihee, 
'\Vliich doth enchant the soul. Now such a voice 
Wiil drive away from me the evil demon 
That beats his black wings close above my head. 

Duch. Where is thy lute, my daugHteit \jb'. \\v^ WOt^w 
Hear same nmnll trial of thy skill. 


Tltek. Uy mother! 


Duch. Trembling ? Come, collect th)-wir. Go i 
Thy father, 

Tiiek. my mother I I — I can not. 
Cttun. How. what is that, niece ? 
T/tek. (to Oie Countess.) spare i 
sore anxiety, 
or the o'erburlhened soul — to sin|; to him. 
Who is thrusting, even now, my otother headlong 
Into her grave ! 

Duch. How. Thekls ? Unmorsome ? 

What ! shall thy father have expressed a wish 
la vain ? 

Coun. Here is the lute. 

Thek. My God ! how can I — 

[ The orchestra plays. During the ritornello Thckia r'- 
presses in her gestures ami counleuaace the UrtisJ-' 
fif her feclinsi : and at the nwiuent that she sbuu^ '■ 
begin to sing, contracts herself together, as one Jiu-i- 
dcri/ig, throws the instrument doicn, and retires (ifr 
Duch. Jly child : she is ill— 


What aila 

Say, is she often so ? 

CoHII. b 

tice then herself 

Ho* now betrayed it, 1 

loo must no longer 

Conceal it. 

Wal. What? 

Coun. She loves him! 

ITrt/. Loves him ! Whom ? 

Conn. Max. does she love ! Max, Ficeolomini. 
Hast thou ne'er noticed it 7 Nor yet ray sister ? 

Duch. Was it this that lay so heavy ou her heart ? 
God's blc^inp; on thee, my sweet rhild ! Thou needeat 
Never take shame upon thee ior thy choice, 

Coun. This jouriiev, — if 'iwere not thy aim. ascribe it 
To thine own Kolf. thou sliould'st have chosen another 
To have attended hcv. 

Ji^al I*>w4 ioeft Ve Vv«i'« \0. 


Coun. Yes, and ho hopes to win her. 

Wal. Hopes to win hei ! 

Is the boy mad ? 

Coun. "Well — hear it from themselves. 

Wal. He thinks to carry off Duke Friedland's daughter! 
Ay ? — The thought pleases m*e. 
The young man has no grovelling spirit. 

Coun. Since 
Such and such constant favor you have shown him 

Wed. He chooses finally to be my heir. 
And true it is, I love the youth ; yea, honor him. 
But must he therefore be my daughter's husband ! 
Is it daughters only ? Is it only children 
That we must show our favor by ? 

Duch. His noble disposition and his manners — 

Wed. Win him my heart, but not my daughter. 

Duch. Then 

His rank, his ancestors — 

WeU. Ancestors ! What ? 

He is a subject, and my son-in-law 
f will seek out upon the thrones of Europe. 

Duch. dearest Albrecht ! Climb we not too high, 
Lest we should fall too low. 

Wal. What ? have I paid 

A price so heavy to ascend this eminence. 
And jut out high above the